


Ghostwriter

by bisasterdi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (but not really), Crowley avoiding his Crime Family Family, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Feelings Realization, Frustrated Author Aziraphale, Ghostwriter Aziraphale, Ghostwriter/Subject of Book, Human AU, Let's run away together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Playboy Crowley, Romance, Slow Burn, Strangers to Associates to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22584019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisasterdi/pseuds/bisasterdi
Summary: With the ghostwriting job that pays his bills on the line, struggling author Aziraphale is given one last assignment to prove himself: Write a tell-all 'autobiography' of notorious playboy Anthony J. Crowley. They certainly don't get off to a great start, but with Aziraphale's job and Crowley's only form of financial support on the line, they'll both have to hang in there long enough to finish the book.If Crowley's family--notorious in the seedy underbelly of organized crime--and the law enforcement investigating them don't get in the way, then the very real feelings that spark between them will.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 235
Kudos: 291
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Gabriel's Just a Bad Boss

**Author's Note:**

> Beta work by Soap - Who, as always, has been invaluable from earliest brainstorming, to word salad fixing, to along-the-way problem solving. Thank you so much, you’re amazing and fun and I’m really glad we’re working together on things. <3 You're a treat to chat with and very patient with my propensity to repeat words.
> 
> This work is a Good Omens Holiday Swap pinch hit for thebasisofoptimism. I'm trying to hit two of the three prompts. (Let's see how I do.) 
> 
> Prompts I'm working from:  
> 1\. To read about first kisses and declarations of love is really nice always in any kind of setting.  
> and  
> 3\. Or how about a human AU that is not 'they meet in high school / uni'.
> 
> Well, I can promise you a big yes on the first thing. Crowley *is* taking a course or two, but a) it's an enrichment thing for him b) they don't meet there, I promise and c) it's really just background information. I haven't aged them down to typical university age.

Aziraphale sat quietly at the far end of the conference table, his fingers worrying the edges of his notebook as he tried not to look exasperated. His attendance at these meetings always seemed superfluous, waiting through long presentations and the endless pontification of his more-favored co-workers. Gabriel sat at the head of the table, obviously capped teeth gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lighting, nodding happily as Uri continued to brag about how quickly their current project was wrapping up.

"Good, good," Gabriel said, clapping his hands together with obvious glee. "You'll finish this one in record time, and for such a huge contract, too." Uri got a pat on the back, the barest smile pulling at the corners of their mouth. "So, that's all, then?"

Gabriel was, in fact, already getting to his feet, his hands pushing down on the gleaming surface of the table, when Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"Ah, not quite?" he ventured, looking down to see that he'd shuffled his papers to the wrong place, then bumbled them around a bit until he found the part of his notes he needed.

Gabriel was frozen awkwardly in place, half sitting and half standing, as his chest heaved with a sigh. He eased back into his chair, fixing Aziraphale in place, and Aziraphale's mind went blank.

"Well?" Gabriel demanded, after a long moment of silence had passed.

"Yes!" Aziraphale said, wincing when it came out too loudly, too cheerfully. "I was hoping to ask for an extension on my current project? I have, of course, kept on pace with our contractual obligations, but the subject of the book has recently furnished me some new, very interesting background materials which I'd like to incorporate into the draft as it currently—"

"Will it generate more buzz?" Gabriel asked, holding up his hand in a silent gesture for Aziraphale to stop talking. "Sell more copies? Make for good pull quotes in our sell sheets?"

Aziraphale sat there, quiet, not sure if he was meant to answer or not. Gabriel was prone to fits of pique when someone failed to guess what he wanted with one of his imperious gestures, or when they answered what was meant to be a rhetorical question.

"Well?" Gabriel demanded, his fingers tapping on the table in annoyance.

"Ah," Aziraphale stammered, playing for time. He should have _known_ these would be the questions put to him, and yet, he'd somehow failed to prepare answers for them. "Not...as such?"

"Okay," Gabriel said, squeezing his eyes shut as though he had a sudden headache coming on.

"Oh, I can have the extra two weeks?" Aziraphale blurted out, relief flooding through him as he chided himself for thinking so poorly of his boss. The man wasn't that bad, really, if he could see the sense in putting out the finest end products the firm was capable of. Certainly, he had a reputation for being a stickler, and for insisting each employee fulfilled no more than the bare minimum according to the terms of the contracts the agency had entered into. Every unofficial office motto revolved around the theme of following each project plan to the letter, finishing as quickly as possible, providing no more than was required, and making sure each book could generate enough 'buzz' to be profitable. Yet, how true could this really be if Gabriel finally found it within himself to agree to one of Aziraiphale's requests?

"No, there will be no extension. I was merely acknowledging that you, yet again, are asking to abuse your resources with no gain for the company." Gabriel smiled, a sarcastic, petty thing, and dismissed his employees with a wave of his arm.

Aziraphale recovered himself and gathered up his things, hoping to scurry out among the crowd and avoid yet another dressing down, but he stiffened as Gabriel's hand on his shoulder locked him in place.

"Fell, I think it's time the two of us had a private meeting. Come to my offices in fifteen minutes, and bring all of the supporting material for your current project."

* * *

Well, that was it, then. Aziraphale would surely be sacked, and then he'd have to admit to himself this simply wasn't working. His attempts to get his own novels published had all failed, and he couldn't seem to keep a writer's agent when he constantly butted heads with them regarding his lack of interest in popular subject matter and current trends in commercially successful novels. He couldn't even manage to stay afloat at a soulless corporate gig such as this one. This was clearly a sign to regroup, find a different day job, and probably end up in a situation where it was even harder to steal time away for his own writing.

He nearly grabbed the nameplate out of the holder next to his office door, the 'A.Z. Fell' engraved into it mocking him even more than usual. The pen name, necessary because Aziraphale hadn't exactly been thinking about what his chosen name would look like on a book cover when he'd elected to change it while living in the orphanage. An angelic-sounding name like 'Aziraphale' had seemed like a fantastic idea at the time. At his current age, though, it merely seemed like the first in a long series of iffy decisions.

He fidgeted as he waited in Gabriel's ostentatious outer offices, trying to ignore the way Gabriel's assistant, Sanborne, was glaring at him. The furniture here seemed to be designed to be off-putting, as uncomfortable as expensive furnishings such as these could possibly be. Aziraphale was convinced that the fabric on the chairs actually irritated his skin through his clothes, and the urge to just leave his access card on his desk and walk out for good was considerable.

Sanborne's desk phone beeped, and Gabriel's voice boomed from the speaker. 

"Send in Fell, if he's shown up yet."

Sanborne didn't even bother to put on an insincere smile and simply gestured behind himself, barely glancing in Aziraphale's direction.

Determined to keep his dignity, Aziraphale held his head high and concentrated on keeping his hands from shaking as he opened the heavy double doors leading into Gabriel's corner office. Brentford Dock and the serene waters of the Thames came into view behind the imposing mahogany desk where one very annoyed CEO leaned back in his chair, regarding Aziraphale through narrowed eyes.

"You think I'm going to fire you, don't you?" Gabriel asked, his American drawl sounding particularly grating to Aziraphale, whose heart was pounding so hard and so quickly he could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

"I’d wager you feel you should," Aziraphale said, barely letting his voice above a whisper.

"See, this is what's wrong with you," Gabriel said, standing up and turning his back, apparently deciding to deliver the rest of his speech to the windows. "You can't commit; you're wishy-washy. You ask for extra time, you yammer on about sticking to the actual truth in your biographies even when the truth is deadly boring, but you back down the second anyone tells you no. I might actually have more respect for you if you got in my face, argued, instead of just folding like origami."

"I've never really seen the need for such unpleasantness," Aziraphale said, squaring his shoulders. "People of conscience can have disagreements without resorting to callous language and a lack of regard for each other."

"See? That's it." Gabriel spread out his arms, as though he could somehow pull the entirety of their posh neighborhood through the windows, into his chest, and make it his own. "That's why you aren't getting anywhere."

Aziraphale seethed, knowing that if he'd ever had the temerity to mount a serious disagreement with Gabriel, he'd have been out on his arse long before now. As much as his boss seemed to be suggesting that it was a lack of backbone that was Aziraphale's problem, the true issue was that Aziraphale didn't think the half-baked biographies the company turned out were any good, and he had a deep-seated desire to change that. No one else here seemed to care or even notice how substandard their work was, especially Gabriel.

"If you're going to sack me—" Aziraphale began, having hit his internal limit of how much he could take, but Gabriel cut him off.

"Oh, I'm not."

Aziraphale blinked, confused. "If you didn't bring me here to let me go, would you mind if I asked—"

"I'm pulling you from your project. Uri will finish it up, as _their_ project has been completed well ahead of schedule."

"I assure you, sir, I am more than capable of bringing the draft to the editing staff on time. I only asked for the extension in the hopes I could incorporate the new material I spoke of in the meeting—"

Gabriel turned around and held up a hand, cutting him off again.

"This isn't the time to suddenly grow a backbone. That moment," he paused, giving a grin so disingenuous that Aziraphale nearly shuddered, "has passed. I know you _can_ do the work, Fell, but then what would you learn? Your work is actually...not bad. Above average...maybe," Gabriel added, as though he was bestowing some sort of glowing praise. "You could be a model employee, if you'd just get on board with the _plan_. I need you to honor the guidelines we've set forth to keep this company successful. I promised the shareholders that we'd be the most profitable writing firm in the world when I took over, Fell, and you're the rock in my shoe that keeps me from racing toward that goal."

"I've certainly never intended—"

"Of course you haven't," Gabriel said, and Aziraphale wondered if it was somehow less rude to interrupt someone in America than it was in Great Britain, or if Gabriel was a boor in any country. "You're always so _terribly polite,_ " Gabriel said, mocking Aziraphale's accent and it was an act of sheer will that Aziraphale managed to keep his face serene. "Listen, I have the perfect assignment that will get you on board. I can assure you, you'll want to finish this one as quickly as possible. It'll illustrate the value of completing your work on time, and hopefully show you how much more rewarding things can be if you learn how to play ball."

A slim file was pulled from the top drawer of Gabriel's desk, and the research and notes pertaining to Aziraphale's current project were scooped up and whisked away, out of sight. Gabriel nodded to the folder, as though he was annoyed that Aziraphale hadn’t picked it up right away.

"That's your new assignment," Gabriel told him. "Six weeks. Not a day more."

"Yes, sir," Aziraphale said, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his mouth. He didn't dare look down, or even peek at the manilla folder he held in his trembling hands. He turned tail and headed for the door, pausing only when one last sentence hit him on his retreating back.

"Don't let me down, Fell."

* * *

Anthony Crowley's phone buzzed in its cradle, drawing his attention as he whizzed down the M25. He let out a heavy sigh, seeing his 'Mommie Dearest' contact blinking incessantly at him.

"'M driving, mother," he said, not giving her a chance to speak first after he'd thumbed the hands-free answer button on the steering wheel of his insanely expensive sports car.

"Well, hello. Thank you so much for asking after my health, you're always so thoughtful," his mother answered, sarcasm dripping through the phone. "Since we've apparently dispensed with all pleasantries, I'll cut straight to the chase. We're having a tell-all book written about you. You need to be at your flat in an hour to meet the ghostwriter."

"You're..." Crowley sputtered, trying to take in this new gem that had been thrust upon him by his lovely family. "You're having...a book...what?" he asked, not particularly caring that he sounded like a moron. He was not, simply _not_ going to comply with this. These demands were getting ridiculous.

"I can smell the stench of rebellion coming over the phone lines, Anthony. I realize this may come as quite a surprise to you, given that you have as little to do with us as possible, but the family business is attracting too much interest of late. We need a distraction."

"Oh, and I'm the designated idiot for that duty, am I?" Crowley growled, pushing his foot down harder on the accelerator, then making a rude gesture at the angry driver he cut off moments later.

"You could always do what you should have done in the first place and join the business. Your uncles and cousins would love to—"

"We've had this discussion, mother," Crowley said, not bothering to filter the anger out of his tone.

"If you won't work—"

"If it was just _work,_ mother, I would be happy to—"

"Anthony!" his mother shouted, testing the upper limits of his sound system's speakers. "This isn't an appropriate subject for..." she trailed off, but Crowley knew what she meant. There wasn't much question that his family's phones were tapped. Whether it was another crime family or the NCA listening in, no one knew, but wiretapping of some kind was considered a given.

"The trust that paid for that overpriced flat of yours, that puts gas in that ridiculous automobile you swan around in...that's a revocable trust, Anthony. If your father feels you aren't being appropriately supportive of our endeavors—"

"So that's how you're playing this one, mother? Go along with it or find myself penniless?"

"My son," she said, without any of the affection Crowley was sure should be behind those words, "I'm simply pointing out that the money that supports your extravagant lifestyle is _family_ money. It comes part and parcel with family _obligations_. Your family was there for you last year when you were sick..."

Crowley shouldn't have been shocked that his mother would throw _that_ back in his face, but he'd somehow thought bringing it up _now_ would have been below her. He'd had too much pride to tell any of his jet-setting friends about his little cardiac scare, and in a moment of weakness, he'd decided to go home and ask for help. A nurse had been hired to look after him until he felt better, an expense he'd later been told had been paid for out of his own trust. The "help" hadn't been anything he couldn't have arranged on his own, in the end, and yet it was now being dangled in front of him as an example of how much the family had done for him. 

"So what's it to be, then? Be at my flat in an hour, or find my accounts locked?" Crowley growled, waiting with impotent rage on the answer he knew was coming.

"You always were my smartest child, Anthony," she said, and the line went dead.

"I'm your _only_ child, _mother!_ " Crowley screamed to no one, beating uselessly on the steering wheel.

He looked at his watch, cursing his decision to select a watch based on its impressiveness instead of getting one he could _read the bloody time_ on, and sighed. He had plenty of time to make it back to his flat, but he'd miss a third consecutive session of his Plant Genetics course if he did. His instructor, clearly already wary of Crowley and the reputation which preceded him, would surely drop him. 

"Well," he reasoned aloud, shrugging, "I hope this poor bastard doesn't mind me being incredibly late."


	2. First Meeting

Aziraphale arrived at the swanky building in Mayfair precisely 15 minutes ahead of his appointment time, his eyes widening when he took in the sight ahead of him. He'd worked with some of the firm's wealthier clients before, but he'd never encountered anything like this. His suit suddenly seemed shabbier, his shoes dull and scuffed, in the shadow of such a building. Coming off a public bus, he felt more like a panhandler than someone who had legitimate business there.

Trying to put all that behind him, he pushed on the tall glass doors at the front of the lobby. He frowned when the door stayed resolutely in place, despite his best efforts to shift it.

"Sir?" A tinny, bored-sounding voice emanated from somewhere above him, and when Aziraphale looked up, he saw a small speaker with a security camera next to it.

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale stammered, rustling open his manila folder and looking for the name of his client. "I have a meeting with an...Anthony Crowley...in 15 minutes."

"Identification?" the voice replied, and Aziraphale looked around, then patted his pockets until he found his wallet. He fumbled out his ID, holding it up toward the camera.

"Please wait," said the voice, the speaker rustling with a bit of static but cutting out before Aziraphale could reply.

Aziraphale stood awkwardly on the front steps, folder open, wallet out, and ID card still loose, still not sure what to do until the speaker crackled to life again.

"Mr. Crowley is not available."

And that was it. No further information, nothing. Not even a dismissal, just a simple statement.

"Ah...excuse me? I'm quite certain my firm and I have an appointment for today with Mr. Crowley. Our first meeting is set out in a contract, you see, and if I'm not here for it, we'll be in breach of our agreement. I wish it weren't the case, but I cannot afford to go back to my office not having accomplished this task. Perhaps you have a lobby or waiting area—"

"There is no admittance to the building without a resident in attendance, sir."

That was all, again. Just a vomiting of facts before the speaker cut off, leaving Aziraphale blinking at the camera like a cretin.

Aziraphale took his phone out of his pocket, frowning at it. Company policy was to keep the blasted thing on him at all times. Once, Gabriel had called in the early hours of the morning during Aziraphale's shower and he'd been admonished quite severely for failing to answer. It was an object he looked upon with the greatest distaste, and he avoided it as much as he could get away with.

He could simply make a call to ask for clarification. This was certainly the correct address, and he hadn't mistaken the time. There was no contact information for his subject in the file, so calling back to the home office was really his only option.

As his finger hovered over the send icon, he imagined the next moments: being transferred to Sanborne and having to explain that he'd failed to make this meeting happen and was calling, hat in hand, to ask Gabriel for some guidance. He shuddered at the very idea of such an unpleasant conversation, especially after his dressing down earlier that morning.

With a sigh, Aziraphale arranged the folder on the edge of the step, then sat down gingerly on top of it. He might be waiting, clueless as to why his client hadn't met him at their appointed time, but he'd be damned if he ruined a perfectly good pair of trousers while he did it.

* * *

Crowley hated himself for speeding on his way back. It felt too much like compliance with his mother's demand, but that wasn't the fault of the poor sap who'd been sent to write this trashy book about him. Hopefully they hadn't simply given up and left, or this whole affair was likely to get even more unpleasant. 

He swung into his space in the underground parking a few moments later, barely stopping before his front bumper tapped the wall. Once he locked up, he exited to the street instead of getting into the lift to go up to the penthouse, as there was no way this ghostwriter person could possibly have talked their way inside. Many an acquaintance had been unfortunate enough to arrive for a visit before Crowley himself was home and had been left fuming on the marble steps instead of being granted admittance.

It brought a sly smile to his lips, remembering back to the last time one of his cousins, that Hastur pillock, had stopped by without an invitation. With barely restrained glee, the doorman had later told Crowley of how Hastur had bragged about the voluminous contents of his own bank account and insinuated that an insignificant creature like the doorman wasn't worthy of barring Hastur from anywhere. (The impact of his braggadocio was dampened significantly by the inch-thick pane of glass and deadbolts separating them.)

If he'd had any expectations about who would be waiting for him, he would have found them completely subverted by the man who'd parked himself on the stairs. Outdated suit, too-perfect posture, a mass of blinding white, tamed curls atop his head, and nose stuck in a book. He took in a breath to catch the man's attention, realizing only belatedly that he had no idea what his name was.

"Ah...blondie," he called out, deciding he'd do better to start behaving like an idiot from the start, given the sort of book he knew his mother would have arranged to be written about him. "Are you the ghostwriter?"

The man startled and then blinked up at him, tucking a bookmark between the pages of his book and neatly closing it.

"Anthony Crowley?"

"The one and only," Crowley said, throwing his arms wide, as though he was presenting himself like some sort of prize.

"Ah, good," the man said, radiating relief for a moment until he appeared to remember how he'd been left here to wait. He stood, brushing himself off and then offering a handshake in a way that somehow continued to broadcast how annoyed he was.

Crowley liked him already.

"A.Z. Fell," he said, and good lord above, his hand was so soft. Crowley knew he was standing there gawping like an imbecile, but there was something delightful about the man, even as he continued to fail at masking his irritation.

"Ay-zi?" Crowley asked, wondering what 'Azi' possibly could be short for.

"A. Period. Z. Period. My initials."

"D'you want me to call you A period Z period? Because that's weird, but I could be into that," he said, trying to ooze charm and style but feeling rather sure he missed the mark, based on the deep sigh Mr. A gave him in return.

"Most people simply call me 'Fell.' I'm sure that will be fine for our purposes."

Interesting, Crowley thought. This Fell character was evasive from the start, apparently wanting to keep this process as impersonal as possible. Crowley could just play along, of course. He didn't want this book written, per se, but it was clear he'd have no choice in the matter. The smart thing would be to keep his interactions with the ghostwriter as perfunctory as possible and get this over with.

But what fun would that be?

"Say, Fell," he said, putting in another try at being charismatic, "we could start off with a drink, if you like. You could ask some questions off the record, see what you're in for?"

He was met with a puzzled look, as though the question hadn't made any sense. In Crowley's opinion, a few shots off the top shelf of his favorite bartender's stash  _ always  _ made sense, but perhaps the writer was a teetotaler? 

"I'm afraid our project has a limited timeframe, and I intend to deliver a finished draft on or before the agreed-upon date." His tone was still a little clipped, the smile not quite reaching his eyes, but he didn't look  _ quite  _ as annoyed as he had before. "If there is somewhere we could set up to begin our interviews?"

"Right. Yes. Interviews." Crowley nodded, trying not to think about how dreadful all of this would be. Embellishing or outright inventing the tales of debauchery and self-indulgence to the patron saint of propriety and proper comportment standing before him was going to feel like being on the business end of a confessional.

"Sorry, got lost in thought for a moment," Crowley said, shaking his head to clear it. "Follow me."

Crowley led him into the building, and he heard a plaintive sigh behind him after a mere wave of Crowley's access card granted him entry.

"Let's get you sorted, all right?" Crowley said, wondering if a gesture of hospitality would win him back any of the points he'd lost by being late.

They went to the security desk and Crowley arranged for Mr. A period Z period Fell (and Crowley was sure to spell it out this way for the doorman, to a rather hilarious pursing of Fell's lips) to have full access to the common areas and to Crowley's flat. When Fell's ID was passed back to him, he guarded it carefully in his cupped hands before turning and giving Crowley an expectant look. 

"Let me guess...it's a horrible picture on your license and you don't like anyone to see it?" Crowley asked, leading the way to the lift that would take them up to the penthouse.

"Ah." The card was fumbled back into an ancient-looking wallet. "I suppose so. Silly of me."

Crowley examined the mirrored ceiling as they rose through the levels of the building, not bothering to hide his grin. He did love a mystery, even an utterly odd one like this. This Fell character was lying straight through the fabric of his charmingly out of style trousers, and over such a tiny thing. Perhaps this whole book writing procedure would be more fun than he'd anticipated.

* * *

Aziraphale sighed, dutifully committing the story Anthony Crowley was currently telling him to paper, but he wasn't sure if he'd be able to use it. In fact, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to use  _ anything  _ the man had told him so far.

"So when we got kicked out of that club for...well, I still say that it was an accident when those trays of drinks ended up on the floor, but the management there didn't seem to believe me..." Anthony trailed off with an artful shrug and a wink, and Aziraphale wished fervently that he hadn't found it charming.

"As interesting as this story is," Aziraphale said, shifting around again to try to get comfortable with his notebook and pen and failing spectacularly, "I'm not certain it's notable enough to make the book?"

"Ah, but I haven't gotten to the best part yet. They had us arrested when we..." Anthony paused, and Aziraphale got another tingly feeling that the story wasn't necessarily a complete fabrication, but that it was being heavily edited. Whether details were being altered, cut out, or added in, he wasn't quite sure yet. There were an awful lot of these pauses in Crowley's stories, which didn't exactly lend any of this an air of credibility.

"What happened when you were arrested, Anthony?" Aziraphale prompted, trying to get the man back on track. and noted the wince at the use of his first name. Perhaps he'd been too informal, and Anthony expected to be called 'Mr. Crowley?’

"You are..." and Anthony trailed off again, his eyes playing over Aziraphale's body in a way that should have made him very uncomfortable but merely made him shift again in the unforgiving hardness of the chair, "...having a bit of trouble juggling that notebook, aren't you?"

"I am rather accustomed to working at a desk, or at least a table," Aziraphale said.

"Neither of which I have, I'm realizing," Anthony said, looking around as though he was seeing his surroundings for the first time. "I really don't have a single flat surface, do I?"

"Not even a coffee table," Aziraphale agreed. "No island in the kitchen, no dining table." Aziraphale cocked his head, realizing there may have been a room or two that hadn't been included in the tour he'd been given upon their arrival, when Anthony had seemed obsessed with pointing out every rare and expensive piece of art or furniture breaking up the vast emptiness of the flat. "Unless you have an office or the like?"

"Nope," came the reply, delivered with a great deal of relish by the tall, lean man sitting opposite him. "I suppose I could order something in," he said, appraising his surroundings, though Aziraphale could see how disturbed he was by the notion of introducing another item into his perfectly sparse surroundings.

"I wouldn't dream of inconveniencing you, Mr. Crowley," Aziraphale said, testing out the more formal version of Anthony's name and watching carefully to see if this was more to the man's liking.

Ah. Apparently not. The face he was met with the moment the 'Mr.' had left his lips could have soured milk. (Even if it was still inside the cow.)

"At the risk of sounding depressingly cliché, 'Mr. Crowley' is my father."

Aziraphale took a breath, not usually one to share even a mundane observation of his own so early in the process of putting together a draft. "It's only...well, I called you Anthony before, and you didn't seem to like that, either. Is there a preferred form of address I should use?"

"My friends just call me Crowley," he said, draping himself backward in the chair in a manner almost improbable for anyone possessing a human spine.

"And you'd find it acceptable if I—"

"Listen, Fell, I'm already on last-name terms with you. May as well make it mutual, don't you think?"

The seductive grin and casual, open sprawl of Crowley's criminally long legs made Aziraphale's mouth go dry, and he looked away. While it was still a mystery why so many of his anecdotes didn't ring true, there was nothing inexplicable about Crowley's romantic reputation with men, women, and anyone belonging to the human race and identifying otherwise. It was no wonder that he didn't bother with mundanities such as being on time for meetings, when it was difficult to imagine anyone staying angry with him when faced with the full force of his charm.

"That would be acceptable," Aziraphale said, trying to keep things as formal as possible. This project would be easier if he remained detached and objective.

"Acceptable, hmm?" Crowley said, pronouncing the words slowly and caressing each syllable with the deepest tones of his uncommonly expressive voice. "Now we've sorted that out, let's talk about a place for you to work. Why don't we go out, and you can select a desk or whatever you'd like? You could keep it after we're done with the book." Crowley winked, and Aziraphale had to swallow again. "That way I wouldn't have to find a permanent spot for it in here."

"That's certainly generous," Aziraphale choked out, "but I'm afraid I couldn't accept a gift from you. You're a client. It wouldn't be proper."

"Ah. Propriety," Crowley said, mischief gleaming in his eyes. "I think I've read about the concept in books."

"Oh, you read?" Aziraphale said, before he could stop himself. It came out with a touch too much sarcasm, though Crowley seemed delighted.

"Ha!" Crowley leaned back even further, almost melding with the chair. "I knew there was an actual person somewhere inside that suit." Aziraphale's face must have betrayed the pang of hurt he felt at this, because Crowley immediately began backtracking. "Look, sorry. That came out wrong. You're very professional, and I'm sure that's usually an asset in your line of work. I'm just not a 'usual' person."

Aziraphale nodded, not sure what he should say. This first session was already completely off the rails, which could put him behind schedule. If they didn't get back on track, Aziraphale could end up sacked, and he couldn't let that happen.

"What if I said that I'd be more comfortable telling you all these stories if I knew you’d let me have it when I'm being a plonker, rather than maintaining your professional distance?"

"I'm not certain—"

"Some of this stuff is embarrassing," Crowley said, though his still-delighted expression belied his words.

"Have you ever been embarrassed  _ in your life? _ " Aziraphale asked, unable to stop himself.

"That's it!" Crowley said, pointing at Aziraphale and—well, there was no other word for it—giggling. " _ Now _ I can work." 

His face fell a moment later, watching Aziraphale squirm yet again in his chair.

"Look, you've gotta let me buy you a desk. I can't watch this," he gestured vaguely over Aziraphale's body, as though he was caressing him from head to toe from across the room, "in front of me for weeks."

"I couldn't possibly. I'd have nowhere to put your...generosity."

Crowley gave him a long, searching look.

"You know, usually I have them lining up around the block to accept my..." Crowley trailed off, winking before he continued, "...generosity."

Certainly there was nothing untoward about either of their phrasing on the face of it—every word was completely innocent. Yet, in this room with this particular person, the conversation that passed between them was adjacent to indecent. Aziraphale studiously ignored the raised eyebrow he got from Crowley, who appeared to have some sense of Aziraphale's discomfort.

"Well," Aziraphale sputtered, trying to regroup, "besides, I already own a desk I'm rather fond of."

"That's it!" Crowley snapped, and then pointed at him. "You have a desk you're fond of. Let's just go there."

Aziraphale looked around, eyes wide as he took in his posh surroundings again, and he tried to imagine transplanting Crowley from here into his cosy, overstuffed second story walk-up. How incongruous would Crowley look, surrounded by Aziraphale's mishmash of furniture and piles of well-loved books?

"Mr. Cro—" Aziraphale stopped himself. "Crowley," he began, testing it out, and found the name sat rather easily in his mouth. "I wouldn't want to seem inhospitable, but I can assure you, you'd find it difficult to be comfortable in my flat."

"I can get comfortable anywhere," Crowley said, his lazy sprawl intensifying as though to underscore his point. "If I told you about the time I managed to fall asleep ten meters from the main stage at Glastonbury a few years ago..." His gaze bored into Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was forced to wonder if Crowley had ever failed to talk anyone into anything.

"We have several meeting rooms back at my home office that would certainly suffice, if you're amenable to working away from your home?" Aziraphale tried, but his attempt sounded weak even to him. The disdainful face Crowley made in response didn't come as much of a shock.

"Look, I know all of this is going to end up in a book, out there for everyone to read," Crowley began, and if Aziraphale wasn't mistaken, a true air of discomfort surrounded Crowley as he said it, "but a cold, corporate environment like that might be the one kind of place that could shut me up."

Aziraphale thought on this. His back really was killing him, trying to balance on Crowley's ridiculous furniture and keep up the pace of his shorthand.

"I know I'm asking a lot," Crowley admitted with an earnest tone in his voice. He shrugged. "I just think this'll be easier if we're  _ both  _ more comfortable."

"You do know I don't live anywhere like this." Aziraphale gestured around him, trying and failing to think of a more polar opposite to his own flat.

"Oh, so I'm a snob, am I?"

Aziraphale was horrified until he saw Crowley's wry grin, then downgraded to merely discomfited.

"Is there somewhere I can write down my address for you?" Aziraphale asked, giving up his protests and neatly ignoring the last few moments of their conversation.

"You could just text it to me. You should probably have my phone number anyway."

"Ah," Aziraphale said, digging the detested mobile out of the inner pocket of his jacket. He was searching for the text function in the long list of apps he never used, when he heard a sigh.

"You  _ really  _ don't use that thing, do you?" Crowley observed, and Aziraphale cringed a little.

"I realize you're on the verge of calling me a luddite, but no, I'm not very fond of it."

"Mind if I help?" came Crowley's voice, much closer now. He must have gotten up while Aziraphale was distracted and leaned over the back of Aziraphale's chair. The blush he felt crawling up his neck toward his face happened without his approval, which made him very cross.

"Please," Aziraphale croaked out, offering up the phone and hoping Crowley would focus on that instead of Aziraphale's reaction. He'd have to spend the evening giving himself a stern talking-to about professionalism. Just because Crowley was charming and objectively attractive was no excuse for Aziraphale to jeopardize the project by allowing himself to notice either of those facts too precisely.

"I'll text myself from yours, you see," Crowley said, tapping at the screen, and his phone made an odd  _ bloop _ a moment later. "Then I'll have your number, in case I'm ever running late again."

"Yes, I see," Aziraphale said, feeling oddly like he was in a bar and had somehow been hoodwinked into giving his number to a man he found equal parts enticing and terrifying. It was an act of pure will that kept him from wringing his hands or biting his lip or doing anything else to rid himself of his nervous energy. Crowley handed his phone back, and Aziraphale forced his hands not to shake.

"Now you can just send another message in that thread with your address, and I'll know where to come." Crowley's face was placid, showing no sign that he'd intended any sort of risqué double-entendre. "You know, tomorrow, when it's time for us to work again."

Ah, and there it was. A little twinkle in Crowley's eye, betraying that he knew exactly what he'd said and what it might sound like, viewed from a certain angle.

Aziraphale busied himself with the text, frowning at the tiny virtual keyboard and talking some sense to himself as he did. For a hundred different reasons, Crowley couldn't really be flirting. They had to maintain a professional distance, for one. Furthermore, Crowley was so far out of Aziraphale's league that he'd need a telescope to see across the full expanse of the distance between them. Crowley simply seemed to default to poking at people to get a rise out of them, and Aziraphale needed to remember it was nothing personal.

Another  _ bloop  _ from Crowley's phone and it was clear he'd received the address, which seemed to be a natural stopping point for the day.

"Well," Aziraphale said, standing up, "I do have quite a few pages of notes to go over." He gestured to his notebook. "I'll have to transfer all of this to a computer, of course."

"Of course," agreed Crowley, not really moving away.

"And I have some research to do, as well. I wasn't given any lead time, you see. I'm not usually this unprepared going into an initial meeting."

"Research..." Crowley said, appearing to chew the idea over for a moment. "About me, you mean?"

"Well, yes," Aziraphale said, getting the impression that Crowley didn't like this idea. "As you're already a public figure, it's important for me to understand the context this book will be released into. It'll allow me to give you an opportunity to tell your side of any events you feel were misconstrued by the press, for example."

"Yeah, not sure the people paying for this book have any interest in contradicting anything the press has ever said about me. I s'pose we should talk about that, but not now, please." Crowley looked him up and down again, as though reconsidering. "Unless you'd like to stay and get drunk with me, so I can get into the proper frame of mind to tackle it?"

"Best not," Aziraphale said, after a long silence. He'd actually felt a bit tempted, as he had a taste for rich, red wines and the occasional finger or two of scotch, and Crowley probably had a vast collection of either, or both. That, combined with the compelling arch of Crowley's eyebrow, had whispered to him to say yes, despite the lack of dedication he'd be showing his job if he allowed himself to give in.

"All right, then. So, what time tomorrow?"

"How would nine be for you?" Aziraphale proposed, almost laughing at the face Crowley made in response.

"Yeah, I'm rarely conscious before eleven or so. I tend to eat dinner late, you see. Whole routine's offset from the old nine to five."

"I can certainly accommodate any schedule for you." Aziraphale welcomed the opportunity to turn back into an objective writer, making himself available at his client's convenience and existing in that person's life only to bring about a book and then vanish. "Name the time."

"Let's do it at one, then. Should make for a lovely afternoon." His smile was, well...just a touch predatory. Interacting this way must be so ingrained for Crowley that he was unable to turn it off, if he was acting this way even with Aziraphale. He made a note of it, an absolutely professional one, to see if he could incorporate it into his eventual portrait of the man. Fodder for the first few chapters, perhaps.

"Splendid," Aziraphale said, edging toward the door. As he exited he realized that, depressingly, Crowley's vestibule alone was at least the size of Aziraphale's kitchen. Aziraphale supposed that was to be expected, when one's flat took up the entire top floor of the building.

It was an odd ride home on the bus, watching the scenery go by and allowing his mind to drift instead of looking over his notes, as he began to make a plan for the next day's interview.


	3. Yet Another Delay

Crowley peeled himself out of bed just before noon the next day, his eyes still feeling heavy as he picked through the freshly washed clothes that the laundry service had delivered a few days ago. His instincts told him to dress like the playboy clown the press believed him to be, as Fell had been retained to write a book reflecting just that. There was nothing to be gained by giving him any other impression. Get through this as quickly and painlessly as possible, never read the book, and then pretend it never happened. That would allow him to keep access to his trust, perhaps even give him enough leeway to give the finger to a few more obligations his family would try to foist upon him before he inevitably found himself unable to say no.

He turned the water in the shower up so high that his skin immediately turned pink when he stepped inside, and it was almost enough to blast away the hangover from the previous night's drinking. He'd felt restless for hours after Fell left, yet not in the mood to go out, so he'd bounced off the walls of his flat until the single tumbler of scotch he'd allowed himself finally sank in. His exhausted collapse face-first onto his bed while still fully clothed hadn't been ideal sleep, but at least it was something.

The heat of the spray wasn't working, though. He tried to relax, but his thoughts strayed to the intriguing ghostwriter. He would be easier to ignore if the glimpses of his true personality that occasionally poked through the careful veneer of professionalism weren't so tempting. It wasn't that he thought the man was an innocent—it was just that every glimpse beyond the barrier between them was compelling in a way Crowley couldn't even put his finger on. The idea of wrecking all that fastidiousness, though...bow tie askew, shirt untucked, those platinum curls wild instead of tamed...

He twisted the tap to the right and the water turned icy, a reminder that a straight arrow like Fell would never find much use for someone like himself. He'd done everything he could to stay out of the muck that was the family business, but trouble always seemed to find him one way or another.

With a shiver, he forced his head under the showerhead to clear the shampoo, then cut the water off and stepped out. Wrapping one of his decadently thick bath sheets around his hips, he set off to finish up so he could hopefully leave on time.

That was the plan, anyway, to make up for leaving Fell waiting around for him the previous day. It was going swimmingly until his mobile shook against the cold, black marble next to the sink.

He shouldn't check it, he really shouldn't. Odds on, it was one of his insanely rich acquaintances—someone bored and wanting to drown that feeling in alcohol or the decadence of an impromptu trip on a private jet. Crowley didn't want to do that anymore, numb himself until he forgot his frustrations. He was trying to build something for himself. Something real.

The mobile was ignored through his shave, and remained so as he rubbed pomade in his palms to warm it before it did its job of holding up his hair. As soon as his hands were clean again, though, his curiosity began to win out.

It could be Fell, actually. He might have been summoned to some sort of ghostwriting emergency and had to cancel. Crowley might save himself the inconvenience of a drive across town if he checked it.

Giving in to the inevitable, he thumbed the power button and swiped his unlock pattern. His eyes went wide when he saw the brief message waiting for him, from a contact he'd simply labeled, ' _ Actually not an arsehole.' _

It was just '911' followed by an address, and he knew exactly what it meant. He couldn't ignore that. She wouldn't text anyone else, and something awful might happen if he didn't act now. He'd just have to let Fell know he'd be late, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he imagined what a colossal idiot he'd appear to be.

Surely he'd understand, though, if Crowley told him why he'd be delayed. He was already scrolling to Fell's contact, getting himself ready to explain, when he realized that he couldn't. Coming to the rescue of a friend like this was hardly the kind of thing his family would expect to end up in the awful book they were commissioning. It would be better for Fell to write him off as an unbelievable arsehole, and this was an excellent opportunity to reinforce that image.

He began to throw on his clothes, stumbling toward his stereo to switch it on before he found a cut from a live album on his phone and streamed it through the speakers. Cranking up the volume, he hoped it would sound to Fell like Crowley was standing in the middle of a club.

"Yes, hello? This is Fell," came the voice over the phone, and Crowley took a deep gulp of air before he went into his rich boy buffoon act.

"Hey there, ghostwriter," he drawled, cupping his hand around the phone so he could be heard. "Listen, I've been out and lost track of time. Dreadfully sorry."

The cleared throat on the other end didn't give Crowley a lot to go on. He plowed forward regardless, reminding himself that it was fine if Fell was angry, and would probably make this whole thing a lot easier.

"Been dancing for hours, and I'm sure you wouldn't thank me for showing up at yours in this state. I'll pop back to mine and clean up. Shouldn't be any later than two." He winced, realizing that would cut things too closely. "Three at the outside," he added. "Buy you dinner to make up for it. Ta!"

And he ended the call before he had to hear whatever annoyance would make it into Fell's tone when he tried to answer.

* * *

Aziraphale stood, mobile in hand and mouth slack with something akin to shock, before he snapped his jaw shut as the anger welled up. Gabriel must have known what he was doing with this assignment—his livelihood resting on the success of a project doomed from the start sounded exactly like the kind of sick joke Gabriel would find amusing.

It was all the more troubling because Crowley—for all his  _ laissez-faire _ approach to time management—had seemed helpful enough when they were actually together in the same room. He was certainly editing or embellishing his stories, but many people did that before they became comfortable with their interviewer. Aziraphale had worked with plenty of subjects who wouldn't have noticed or cared that he'd been uncomfortable without a desk to write on, and they certainly wouldn't have offered to make a present of a brand new piece of furniture just to put him more at ease.

Perhaps Crowley was one of those people who had one truly annoying flaw but would otherwise be a joy to work with. If Aziraphale could simply remain flexible and make himself available according to Crowley's unpredictable schedule, the project could still continue apace. The old Aziraphale—one who  _ hadn't  _ been given a clear ultimatum to deliver or be sacked—would probably have sabotaged the entire process at this juncture by allowing his own frustration to get in the way. This new Aziraphale (the one with his head on the chopping block) would have to do better.

So, with a deep cleansing sigh, Aziraphale set off to keep himself entertained while he waited for Crowley to arrive. He'd normally have been in his office or on-site with a client at this time of day, wishing all the while that he could have been right where he was now. His job was to make himself available for Crowley, and if he could do that while picking up where he'd left off with Rachmaninoff's second symphony—oh, the  _ Adagio _ , he recalled, with a shiver at the memory of how much he loved it—then who was he to quibble about performing his duty?

Aziraphale lingered over a few books he was halfway through before finally selecting one, then carefully positioned the needle on his record player over the beginning of the third cut before setting it down.

Settled into his favorite chair, a book in his hand and the rounded tones of the Russian State Symphony Orchestra floating into the air...it was the most comfortable Aziraphale had been while 'working' in quite a long time.

* * *

Crowley's finger tapped nervously on the steering wheel as he took the last turn at twice the posted speed limit. He didn't have any time to waste, and concentrating on his driving made it easier to ignore that anxious, tight sensation at the back of his skull that flared whenever he allowed himself to consider the oncoming confrontation.

It  _ probably  _ wouldn't need to get physical. Crowley had a knack for defusing these situations with words, which might be why Tracy felt comfortable leaning on him when something like this happened.

He was out of the car and walking before he let himself think too much about it. He needed to be loose and smooth, just enough to get them both out of there as quickly as possible.

"Hi," he said, turning on the charm as soon as the door to the flat was opened. "I've come to help you with the current communication issue."

Crowley hated this, pretending he wanted to be reasonable with tossers like this one instead of shouting at them for being arseholes, but he wasn't out to re-educate the world at the moment. In his experience, the slick approach would yield the fastest results, and the relieved look on the face of the man who'd answered the door seemed to bear that out.

"Yeah, right," the man grunted, pulling his robe further closed and tugging on the belt. "Dunno what the big deal is—"

"Well, what you're asking for isn't strictly in the agreement, is it?" Crowley said, cutting him off, but plastering on his cheesiest smile as he did so.

"I just thought—"

"Terrible misunderstanding, that," Crowley said, letting a companionable hand fall on the man's shoulder. It made his skin itch. "Tracy's not in that end of the business, I'm afraid. Lovely woman, but her ad was accurate when it stressed that she performs 'strict discipline' and nothing else."

The man gaped at him.

"Isn't that just to get around the coppers reading it?"

"No, I'm afraid," Crowley said, clicking his tongue with forced sympathy. "And now that you know that," Crowley said, pausing to swallow down anger as he knew Tracy would have tried to explain this herself and yet here Crowley was, saying it again, "I know a reasonable man such as yourself can understand a woman setting limits and sticking to them."

The man had the good grace to look cowed at that. Crowley's shoulders loosened, letting go of the tension that had been there since he'd seen the text, and he sauntered toward the only shut door in the nearby hallway and knocked on it.

"Trace, it's all sorted. Come out and I'll give you a lift home."

He turned, his arms outstretched in a gesture he hoped would telegraph something like:  _ See, I've got nothing to hide here. Just a regular bloke leaving with his friend, no reason for anyone to throw a punch. _

"Try Tinder," Crowley added, trying to distract the man while Tracy grabbed her things and stuffed them into her flowered duffel bag. "You can be quite straightforward there about what you're looking for. Fewer misunderstandings."

He didn't wait for an answer once Tracy had collected everything. With a firm hand on her back, Crowley led her out.

"Sorry, love." The words spilled out of her as soon as they were in the stairwell on the way back to the car. "I think I overreacted there. He wasn't a villain, really, just got the wrong end of the stick."

"I told you to text me if you ever felt unsafe, and I meant it," Crowley growled back. "The police aren't going to look out for you, are they?"

"Thanks, petal. I'm ever so sorry if I pulled you away from something more entertaining."

"Stop worrying," Crowley said, making sure she was settled into the passenger seat before swinging around to his side. He wished he could just accept gratitude like a normal person, but he wouldn't be his true, fucked-up self if he could. Tracy was one of the few who accepted this about him without comment, and that was why he'd drop everything if she needed help.

"Buy you a drink to say thanks?" Tracy proposed, as soon as Crowley sat down.

"Raincheck? Got a hot date."

"Go on, you," Tracy crowed. "In the middle of the afternoon? You cheeky sod. Feel awful for keeping you from it."

Something sickening settled in Crowley's stomach when he felt himself close off. He knew Tracy would listen—and more than that, actually  _ care _ —if he unburdened himself and ranted about this situation with his family and this fucking book, but he just couldn't. He wasn't even sure why and didn't have the strength to examine it further, knowing he probably wouldn't enjoy the answer.

Instead, he let a predatory grin creep lazily onto his face before he threw the car into gear.

"Let him wait, it'll only make him want me more."

* * *

Aziraphale was half asleep in his chair, reading glasses slipped almost off the end of his nose, when the knock came. He stood and took a moment to set himself back to rights before taking one last look around, resolving himself to whatever Crowley's reaction would be to Aziraphale's well-loved but slightly shabby surroundings.

He opened the door, his eyes rounding with surprise when he didn't recognize the person waiting for him there.

"Adam Young," said the young man, holding up a badge for Aziraphale to examine. "I'm with the National Crime Agency. Are you Aziraphale Frost?"

Aziraphale nodded, struck dumb at the idea that an investigator for such a well-known intelligence agency would have any reason at all to be here.

"I need to speak with you about an ongoing investigation." After an awkward moment wherein Aziraphale was still too gobsmacked to take any actions on his own, Officer Young cleared his throat and spoke again. "If I could come in, Mr. Frost?"

"Yes, yes, of course." The words spilled out of Aziraphale in a rush as he yanked the door open wide, gesturing toward the chair he'd cleared off and positioned near the desk for Crowley to use.

"I won't waste your time dancing around why I'm here," Officer Young began, and for the first time, Aziraphale noticed just how much the surname suited him. This man must be a prodigy of some kind, to be working for the NCA as an investigator when it seemed to Aziraphale that he was hardly out of short trousers.

"I should warn you, I'm expecting someone here any moment. If this visit is meant to be kept private—"

"I'm more than likely here to speak with you  _ about  _ the person you're expecting, if you're referring to Anthony Crowley." At Aziraphale's quiet nod, Officer Young continued. "I'll need to be brief, then."

"Surely you aren't investigating…" Aziraphale trailed off as he was offered a manilla folder, opening it instead to leaf through a series of black and white photographs and crime reports littered with blacked-out, redacted sections. "Crowley isn't...is he?"

"We don't think so, Mr. Frost. He is the only son of the man and woman we believe are at the head of one of Britain's most elusive organized crime families, but after months of surveillance and thousands of hours of investigation, we haven't found any evidence that Anthony Crowley is involved. We believe he's actively avoided any participation in criminal activity, actually, and might be the key to making a real break in the case."

"Why come to me, then, instead of speaking to him?" Aziraphale wondered aloud, regretting it when he saw the wry smirk on Officer Young's face.

"We can't risk alerting the family. They keep intermittent surveillance on their son, but we felt that you were enough of an outsider that a visit from someone like me wouldn't raise any alarms. My status with the NCA is a secret, and we don't believe they've got anyone watching you."

"If you don't mind my asking," Aziraphale said, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he tried to put all the pieces together. "How did you even track me down? Or know who I am?"

"We have Mr. Crowley's building under observation, and one of the doormen there actually works for us. I think you met him yesterday? He took a scan of your ID, including this address, and overheard enough of your conversation to get a sense that you might be our way in." The officer scrutinized him in a way Aziraphale could feel, prickling down his spine. "We aren't sure  _ what _ your connection to him is, however."

"I'm a professional ghostwriter," Aziraphale held out a hand for the officer to shake, belatedly feeling silly about the formality of the gesture. "A.Z. Fell is the name I go by, if you wouldn't mind. I chose my legal name when I was much younger, I'm afraid, without thinking very much about the future."

"Really?" The officer looked almost impish for a moment, looking back down at his notes (and presumably at Aziraphale's name). "I thought it was rather cool, actually."

"Crowley's...well,  _ Anthony _ Crowley's family has commissioned my firm to write an autobiography with Anthony as the subject. A tell-all," he added, not bothering to hide his distaste at the nature of the assignment. "The worst sort of unseemly pulp, if you must know, and I'll have to hold my nose while writing it."

Officer Young paused, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed in thought.

"I wonder if they're playing up Anthony's playboy image to make themselves look more like your run-of-the-mill wealthy family, the kind that turns out progeny with more trust fund than sense. No matter the true motive, though, we can be sure they're doing it for a reason."

"Is Crowley in danger, Officer Young?" 

Young looked as though the question surprised him, his head tilting with curiosity as he appeared to  _ truly  _ take in Aziraphale for the first time.

"I would have thought you'd be asking after your  _ own  _ safety, Mr. Frost."

"Fell, truly, if you could?"

"Sorry. Mr. Fell." Adam sighed, looking intrigued. "Most people, upon hearing they were working just a step or two removed from a notorious crime family would be asking me right now if I would be protecting them, or if witness relocation would be available for them if things start to go wrong."

"I'm merely an author, Officer Young. One who is, as you tell the story, doing precisely what Crowley's family wants. I'm sure I'm in no danger whatsoever. Crowley, on the other hand...it sounds as though he's in a very untenable situation, indeed." Aziraphale blinked, picturing Crowley's insouciant body language, his casual, loose demeanor. Perhaps his aggressively relaxed persona was a protective facade, in which case, his life was probably much harder than it had appeared when Aziraphale had been goggling at his lavish apartment and responsibility-free lifestyle. "Can you help him?"

"That's why I'm here, talking to you. We believe you can approach him for us in confidence, as his family has no reason to be suspicious of his meetings with you. We need you to get to know him, make yourself reasonably sure that he isn't involved with any criminal activity himself, and then arrange a meeting for us with him." The officer paused, his finger tapping on the top page of the small notebook he was carrying. "Oh! If you feel comfortable working with us, that is. This might be dangerous, Mr. Fell. I could compel you to do your duty here, but I know what this family is capable of, and I'd much rather have you make this decision yourself. You can take a day or two to think it over—"

"Of course I'll help you," Aziraphale broke in, affronted to be taken as someone who might refuse to help the police, much less as someone who would leave Crowley—who was trapped in a horrible situation, as Officer Young told it—to flounder through on his own. The officer seemed as though he was about to rephrase the question and ask again, so Aziraphale shut that down immediately. "Tell me what you need me to do."


	4. Chapter 4

"'Officer Young' makes me feel too much like a grown up. If we're working together, you can call me Adam."

"Ah, perhaps that would be better. It would hardly do for me to accidentally call you 'officer' in front of the wrong people," Aziraphale agreed.

"Well, yeah. That's the real reason." Adam shrugged. "Just didn't want to make you feel anxious about it."

"Anxious is a sort of default state for me," Aziraphale told him, wishing he were joking. "You can put your faith in me, Adam. The very idea that Crowley's family is using him this way, and that he lives in fear of them forcing him into illegal activities or harming him…" 

Aziraphale tried to imagine it. He'd wished for a family of his own so many times that the longing was permanently woven into who he'd become. Discovering that Crowley's experience was a dark, twisted version of Aziraphale's childhood fantasies of belonging, being loved unconditionally—pressure built in his chest at the thought, stealing his breath and making him blink back tears.

"My status with the NCA is classified, so we should be able to meet without arousing suspicion." Adam leaned forward, crossing his arms on the far side of Aziraphale's desk. "I have a good cover, so don't worry about your safety." Adam nodded, looking older and more confident somehow, with a self-possession that was effective in putting Aziraphale more at ease.

"I find myself very glad you're working for the good guys, Adam."

"Really?" Adam asked, his head tilting to the side with curiosity. "I was a bit of a hellion as a child." Adam leaned back in the chair again, his brow furrowing. "My mum kept me on the straight and narrow. If I'd had a mum like Mrs. Crowley, who knows how I would've turned out?"

Adam looked troubled, and Aziraphale tried very hard not to think of what growing up must have been like for Crowley.

"We haven't been able to make any incidental contact with Anthony, other than installing one of ours as the daytime doorman at his building," Adam said, shaking himself out of his thoughts. "For someone with such a reputation for indiscriminate partying, he's incredibly difficult to get to in a way that won't rouse suspicion. You're the first opportunity we've seen for months who might be able to help us reach him."

"I'm your man," Aziraphale said, slapping a palm down on the desk to punctuate his point.

"Look, you'll need to be careful," Adam said, his brow creasing with worry. "We still aren't fully convinced that Anthony isn't involved in the family business. The minute you get the idea he might be, you need to back off. Look after your own safety first." Adam stood, giving Aziraphale an openly appraising look. "Remember that you're a private citizen, and you don't have any training for this. You seem like the type who might overextend himself."

"Oh, I assure you," Aziraphale answered, following Adam as he started to wander toward the front door, "I know what I'm capable of and what I'm not. I read or write about people of action, but I'd never have the nerve to try it out myself."

"See that you don't, Mr. Fell." Adam was plainly trying to look stern, but the expression didn't seem to want to settle on his features. Nevertheless, Aziraphale nodded soberly, which seemed to ease Adam's concern.

Once the door was open, Adam winked, then said something vague about working on some sort of writing project together. Aziraphale's eyes widened for a moment before he schooled his expression, though he did let his eyes wander to see if they were being observed.

"It's all right," Adam whispered, leaning back in. "Your building's clear. I've had one of my team on it since last night. I was just practicing."

Aziraphale tried to smile and remember what one does with their hands when one isn't trying to keep their heart from beating right out of their chest, but he failed miserably on both counts. He was certain his face looked more ill than pleasant, and his fingers were currently in competition to see which ones could tangle themselves around the others the most.

He shut the door and went back inside, the Rachmaninoff now sounding more frantic than relaxing, given his new state of mind. Aziraphale had to will his hands not to shake as he lifted the needle from the record and replaced the disk into its sleeve, then ran his finger along the other selections on the shelf to find something more soothing.

Debussy, he decided. No one could create an air of not caring at all what might be about to happen the way a French composer could.

* * *

Not too long after Adam left, Crowley arrived. He seemed, by turns, either terribly apologetic or utterly flippant about his late arrival, almost as though he couldn't work out for himself how he was feeling.

Well. That wasn't for Aziraphale to wonder about. No matter how much he was now worried for the man, his duty to his employer (and to Adam's investigation) was to make himself available at Crowley's convenience.

"Perhaps I could get something for you before we start? A coffee, perhaps? You must be exhausted if you've been up all night."

Crowley looked oddly guilty at that, scrubbing a hand down his face as he winced.

"No need to worry about me. I got enough sleep to be awake for this." Crowley paused, his eyes darting around as he thought, then they bugged out briefly as he added, "You know, before I went out last night."

"Of course," Aziraphale agreed. "And the dancing…" He trailed off, struggling to finish the thought. "It was enjoyable?"

"Oh, you know," Crowley said, shrugging, as he sat in the chair Aziraphale indicated. "It was clubbing."

"Of course," Aziraphale agreed, trying not to make obvious that he didn't, as it happened, know a single bloody thing about clubbing. Not from a personal perspective, at any rate. "Perhaps we should begin."

Crowley's entire body seemed to sigh, all the way from his expensive-looking shoes to the sleek sunglasses that were perched atop his head. Aziraphale tried not to react, but now that he knew more about Crowley's situation, it put the man's discomfort with their project into a rather different light.

"You did some research on me, I think? You mentioned something about that when we met yesterday." Crowley looked like a man headed to his own execution. "Might as well start with that, if you have it."

"Ah...yes," Aziraphale said, coughing a little as he shuffled through the papers on his desk to find the one with his hastily-scribbled notes from the information Google had been able to turn up regarding Crowley's more noteworthy exploits. He read over it again, a general aura of disbelief mounting as he made his way through it. "This can't all possibly be true."

"For the purposes of the book, let's just say that every story about me in the press has been completely accurate."

"Some of these rumors, though—"

"What?" Crowley asked, interrupting with an air of impatience. "Are shocking? Illegal? Highly implausible?" He threw his head back, speaking at Aziraphale's ceiling instead. "You seem like an excellent writer, Fell. I'm sure you can deliver the book my parents are paying you for."

"You have a lot of faith in my abilities," Aziraphale choked out. "You can’t know—"

"I'm sure you've written a lot more than this uncredited, but you have four books available on Amazon under your own name. Three of them have excerpts available. I've read all of those, all right?" Crowley shifted in the chair, throwing one leg over the other in a slouchy cross at the knee, then appeared to give up entirely and throw both legs over the left arm of the chair. "You're good enough to dress up all this dreck the way my family wants. Too good for it, really, but I assume you're stuck with the assignment regardless."

"I…" Aziraphale stammered, picturing Crowley going to his computer and reading parts of his books. When had he even had the time? Heat rose on his cheeks as the words 'too good for it' rang in his ears, and he tried to will away the ridiculous little zing of pleasure at being complimented so earnestly. "It will help me to know, even if it's just between the two of us, what's true and what's a fabrication."

"There's at least a shred of truth in all of it, so don't worry about anyone hitting your firm with a lawsuit. My friends don't tend to give a toss what anyone says about them anyway."

"And you? You don't seem…happy about some of these stories."

"Which ones?" Crowley asked, raising his voice and tensing his arms to hold himself up in the chair and glare across the desk at Aziraphale. "The one about me having sponsored gift bags to give out to my one-night stands?"

Aziraphale nodded, one shaking finger traversing the paper in his hands until he found the appropriate paragraph of notes.

"Givenchy and Polo, in fact, have both issued a 'no comment' statement about being two of those sponsors, instead of denying the story outright."

Crowley snorted, muttering something that sounded like, "...better taste than that..."

Aziraphale steeled himself. He couldn't work this way, dancing around the truths and fictions of Crowley's life while Aziraphale's livelihood depended on his ability to turn out a book by the end of their time together - a book that might not ever be published, given the information he'd learned from Officer Young earlier that day. With Crowley's future and his own up in the air, continuing this ridiculous façade was a bridge too far.

"You aren't at all what the press paints you to be, are you?" Aziraphale asked.

"Look, Fell—"

"I will do a much better job if I understand what I'm working with. I could just take dictation from you and transcribe that and turn it over to the editors, but…and I'm not sure how to say this...outside the context of gossip columns, it will be obvious to many readers that the stories are fabrications." He let the obvious implication fall into the silence between them before he continued. "Unless, of course, you're candid with me, and allow me to help you."

"Why, A.Z. Fell," Crowley drawled, and when he slurred the words together that way, it almost sounded like Aziraphale's true name. It took real work to hide how pleased he was to hear it. (Which was ridiculous, as they'd just met the day before, they hardly knew anything about each other, and he simply could not afford to be attracted to a client.) "It  _ almost  _ sounds like you're calling me a liar."

Had it not been for the wide smile and the delighted gleam in Crowley's eyes, Aziraphale might have worried that he'd insulted the man.

"So," Crowley said, swinging his legs back down to the floor and leaning forward onto the desk. "Cards on the table?"

Aziraphale gulped. The full force of Crowley's attention was almost a physical sensation, a pressure against his chest.

"I think it would be helpful to both of us if we focus on being aboveboard with each other."

"You're aware you can't publish the  _ actual  _ truth, aren't you?" Crowley's eyes narrowed appraisingly. "My parents didn't commission this book to set the record straight."

Aziraphale frowned, barely holding back the deluge of questions that begged to be answered. He could probably ask them, given Crowley's general candor and Aziraphale’s growing certainty that he wasn't involved in anything illegal, but his instincts told him it was still too soon to broach that subject.

"That's the impression I got from the brief I was given, yes." He bit back his desire to offer words of commiseration, of apology, sensing that Crowley wouldn't want them.

Crowley leaned back, draping himself over the chair again,  and the disappointment when Crowley looked away to throw his head back was something Aziraphale would have to try to ignore.

"A few of those stories started as rumors. Slander, even, circulated by people who don't like me very much. Some of them are…" he paused, sighing as he delivered this speech to the ceiling, "...conclusions that  _ could  _ be drawn from the information available, but happen to be wrong, and a few of them are," he paused again, his hand caressing his throat in a gesture that read like mild stress and discomfort but made Aziraphale's mouth go a little dry, "advantageously positioned facts to give a slightly different impression than reality."

"I…" Aziraphale said, and then stopped, blinking the sight of Crowley caressing his own neck away as he tried to parse whatever that last sentence truly meant. "I have no  _ idea  _ what that could mean."

"'S'alright, I'll walk you through it." Crowley's eyes crinkled at the corners from the dopey grin on his face.

Aziraphale blinked for a moment, then scrambled to an empty page in his notebook, reaching for his favorite pen. 

"I should just…go down the list?"

"Yeah, let's do it. Rip off the plaster," Crowley said, his arm sweeping in a chaotic arc above him.

"Right." Aziraphale cleared his throat, then read out the first item on this particular list from his research. "Is it, in fact, true that you have insured your…ah, well…a part of your body?"

"What?" Crowley said, bursting out laughing, and Aziraphale couldn't help joining him. This was all just so ridiculous. "I actually hadn't heard that one. No, I'm afraid not. Lloyd's of London keeps refusing my calls."

"You'll just have to be careful, then," Aziraphale interjected dryly, and a warming sensation rose from his belly when this caused Crowley to collapse back into laughter.

"No promises," he choked out, when he was able to talk again. "All right, next?"

"Do you have a series of lookalikes on retainer, so that you can avoid the paparazzi?"

"What makes you think I have them to fool the paps?" Crowley raised his eyebrow, a caricature of salaciousness. "I can think of two or three other reasons that might be far more fun."

"Oh, good lord," Aziraphale muttered, his face feeling warm all the same. "Should I mark that down as a 'no?’"

"If I ever see another person who looks  _ remotely  _ like me—the poor bastard—I'll consider it. But until then, no." 

Well, now  _ that  _ was odd. That little bit of self-deprecation was one of the more genuine moods Aziraphale had sensed from Crowley. Certainly he had a working mirror, didn't he?

They went through several of the more outrageous rumors: the possible removal of one pair of Crowley's ribs for scandalous self-pleasure purposes, whispers that Crowley had fathered one of Prince William or Harry's children, and a remarkably persistent (but, alas, untrue) story that Crowley had been a child star back in the 1990s and was adopted by the Crowleys only to end up in the party scene all over again. They were laughing so hard by the third one that Aziraphale had begun to feel a bit light-headed and giddy.

"I thought I'd have to get blind drunk for this, Fell, but I'm having a marvelous time, I have to tell you." Crowley looked delighted, his eyes misty with tears of mirth, and Aziraphale realized how lovely it was to see him happy.

"I do aim to put my subjects at ease, Mr. Crowley," Aziraphale said, straightening himself up and putting on an air of being quite businesslike.

"Ugh, don't call me that, even in jest," Crowley said, pulling an awful face. "Makes you sound like one of those wankers prostrating themselves in front of my father, and  _ you  _ are too—" He cut himself off, suddenly serious despite the frivolity that had come before. "Well, never mind about that."

"You're right, of course," Aziraphale told him, wishing the mood hadn't been broken. "I did promise to call you Crowley."

Crowley stared at him long enough that Aziraphale began to wonder if he'd said something else wrong, or if he had a stray crumb from lunch on his face that hadn't been noticed until now.

"I'm kind of an arsehole, you know," Crowley began, finally breaking the silence, and before Aziraphale could contradict him, he continued, "so I think I can get away with saying this. 'Fell,' as a name…it really doesn't suit you."

"Really?" Aziraphale sputtered, taken aback.

"It's such a sad word, so depressing, and you aren't either of those things." Crowley continued to stare, his eyes roving, and Aziraphale had to look away. It was just too much. "Can't help your last name, I suppose, but your first name can't be  _ so  _ bad that you'd saddle yourself with something else that really doesn't fit."

"You really don't like a mystery, do you?" Aziraphale said, trying to nudge the conversation in a different direction. 

"Usually don't mind one," Crowley said, shrugging. "This one, though…it bothers me. Isn't there any sort of clout I can throw around as your client to persuade you to tell me?"

Aziraphale finally looked back at Crowley, wondering if he should just tell him and then struggle through the inevitable teasing that would surely follow, or if he should refuse and get them back to work.

He almost wouldn't mind admitting it, if it meant hearing his odd, self-chosen name tripping off Crowley's tongue. The sibilance of the 'z' bringing his lips together, only to part again to form the roundness of the vowels. It would be decadent, like the burst of bittersweet exploding over tastebuds at the first bite of dark chocolate.

"I'm afraid not," he finally managed, looking down so he wouldn't have to see if Crowley was disappointed or unaffected. (He wasn't sure which one would be worse.) "We really should get back to the list, if you wouldn't mind?"

"Yeah, fine," Crowley said, with a put-upon sigh. "What other rubbish have you got?"

"Oh." Aziraphale began, staring at a rumor he understood in theory, although he suspected the true context of it was lost on him. "There’s a rather persistent item that's cropped up more than once. Did you secretly compose a song called  _ Barbie Girl _ ?"

Aziraphale was gratified when Crowley, who had gone rather sober and subdued with all the talk about names, burst into joyous laughter again. He'd chosen one of the more ridiculous-sounding entries from his list specifically in the hopes of recapturing the lighter atmosphere.

" _ That  _ masterpiece? If I'd written that, I wouldn't keep it a secret. I'd probably have it tattooed on my forehead." Crowley's giggles were again copiously spilling from him, his head thrown back over the arm of the chair where he was lying sidelong across it.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know, sadly. I'm sure I've never heard it."

Crowley sat up, teetering precariously from his odd position.

"You're joking, aren't you?" At Aziraphale's shrug, Crowley scrambled for his phone. "This is a travesty that must be rectified immediately. This song—well, depends who you ask—but it's either a glorification of the rampant objectification of women, or it's a sarcastic, subversive takedown of the kind of misogyny that would spawn a doll with measurements so unlikely that a human woman in that form would probably die."

The song began to play and Crowley held up his phone triumphantly, bouncing a little as the opening strains of the song filled the air. It wasn't to Aziraphale's taste, of course, but there was something wonderful about watching Crowley's rapturous delight as the song continued. 

It didn't last, though, as Crowley cut it off after a minute or so.

"You genuinely seem to enjoy that," Aziraphale said, before he could stop himself. "I don't mean to insult you, or insinuate that—"

"It's fine…A…Ah…Ar…An…Andrew?" Crowley grinned. "Am I wrong?"

"I'm afraid so. You really would never guess it, even if we had all the time in the world. You really shouldn't waste your time thinking—"

"Aaron? Abe?"

"Going alphabetically now?"

"If I have to," Crowley said, sighing, and he relaxed back into his casual sprawl. "I'll get it, you know. I'm extremely persistent." There was a pause while Aziraphale wasn't sure how to respond, and then Crowley changed the subject entirely. "You could really use a plant in here. Something low maintenance, I think, if you aren't used to having one. A philodendron perhaps, or a jade plant?" His head lolled to the side, allowing him to look directly at Aziraphale again. "Devil's ivy, if you'd like to hang something in that corner there; they react beautifully to a hanging planter."

"I wouldn't know where to begin. I have a black thumb, if my previous efforts are anything to go by."

"I'll be over often enough for the next few weeks," Crowley said, looking away again. "I could show you what you need to do, and by the time we're done, you'll be brilliant at it."

"I'm not sure…" Aziraphale began, wondering how they'd gotten so far off track. "Perhaps I could think it over, and we could return to the list?"

That was met with a heavy sigh, an honest weariness that elicited a sharp pang of empathy in Aziraphale's chest.

"Could we take this on the road? I get restless…Alexander?" Crowley guessed, raising one eyebrow questioningly until Aziraphale shook his head. "Regardless, we've been here for over an hour, and I'll be a lot better at this if we go out somewhere."

"Wasn't the whole point of you coming here so that I could use my desk?"

"Give me your notebook while we're out and I'll write everything down. C'mon…Alphonse?"

"You're not even close, Crowley. I'm being truthful when I tell you that you'll never guess it on your own."

"But you promise to admit it if I do?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, making a promise that would cost him nothing. Crowley could probably use his influence to find out, charm someone with access to legal records to divulge it to him, but Aziraphale could guess that Crowley would view that as unsporting. He intended to work it out on his own, and that would simply never happen. "Now we really should get to work, and perhaps you could take a break around suppertime?"

Crowley snapped both fingers, pointing at Aziraphale.

"That's it! You're brilliant." He was out of the chair with a lithe roll of his spine, pacing and making wide, grand gestures with his arms. "We'll take this to a plant nursery I know that's not too far from here. We can go over more of the list in the car on the way. Then we'll grab something to eat. There'll be a table for you to write on at the restaurant, and I  _ promise  _ we'll get through the entire list by the end of the meal."

Aziraphale winced, weighing Crowley's obvious discomfort with settling down for a long stretch of time against his own need to work as efficiently as possible. It wasn't just the book, now. He needed to get a read on Crowley's situation for Officer Young, as well. Was this a distraction because Crowley really  _ was _ involved in criminal activities and he wanted to put Aziraphale off the scent? Or did Crowley simply get stir crazy, and his request was an honest attempt to keep himself somewhat on track?

Or did he just want an excuse for them to spend more time…

Aziraphale cut off that line of thought quickly, before the sentence could even finish in his mind. Crowley socialized with the cream of London's party scene and could surely find more amusing company than Aziraphale.

"Yes, all right. You win." Aziraphale stood, smoothing down his trousers and waistcoat. "I can see that my flat is far too boring and featureless for you to properly concentrate. I did warn you, you know."

"Ah, no no,' Crowley said, his shoulders straightening, and he looked very serious. "I didn't say that. I like this." He gestured around himself. "The books, and the…"

"More books?" Aziraphale finished for him.

"Yes, that." Crowley nodded. "But after today, you'll have books, more books…and a plant."


	5. Chapter 5

Was he actually escorting his ghostwriter to the plant nursery, where the  _ one  _ thing he kept just for himself, something he guarded from everyone else, was bound to come up? 

He definitely hadn't thought this through. 

Yet as twitchy as he felt, even as it was intensifying as they got closer to the nursery, he was also looking forward to it. He glanced over at Fell, beside him in the passenger seat, looking marvelously out of place in the sleek interior surrounding him. 

Crowley  _ liked  _ 'out of place'. He craved it, wanted it for himself, to burn this life of his—this constant performance—to the ground and start again. He hated himself for lacking the courage, circling the idea of the life he wished he could have but still doing everything he could to keep it all under wraps. 

Though Fell seemed on the surface to do what he liked—he was a walking sartorial anachronism and had kept his sizable collection of antique books well into the digital age—he did seem to have hoops of his own that he had to jump through to keep his life stable. This ghostwriting job, for instance, was obviously not a soul-deep passion and was surely below his skill as a writer, and yet he displayed an unsubtle amount of anxiety over the prospect of losing his job. 

They seemed to be in the same position, really, when it came down to it. Both of them playing a role that kept them afloat, but wasn't the life they wanted. Neither of them, apparently, with the means to reach out and change it.

It was jarring to Crowley how quickly he'd begun to feel comfortable in Fell's presence. He could name in one breath the number of people he'd ever allowed to know the full extent to which his public persona was a lie, and yet Fell had gotten him not only to admit to it, but to laugh together about how ridiculously unbelievable all of the rumors about his exploits had become. 

How long had he even known the man? A handful of  _ hours _ , a pittance against the days or weeks or years he'd kept this phony front up for nearly everyone else he'd known. It wasn't just the project, Crowley was sure of it. It was something about the man himself, this indescribable link he felt between them.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, choosing that moment to break the silence. "You're very quiet. I do hope you weren't upset over the rumors we discussed earlier."

He should've been annoyed. If anyone else he knew, even someone like Tracy, had asked if he was upset about  _ anything,  _ he'd probably have responded by doing something performatively and aggressively whimsical (and possibly illegal) to prove exactly how fine he was. 

What's worse, he couldn't decide if he  _ was  _ upset. He was feeling something, but it certainly wasn't about the rumors. Those were as ridiculous as ever, easy to use to his advantage or ignore as he liked. What he didn't like was how intrigued he was by this person who would be in his life for six weeks and then would disappear. He didn't like how he was currently on his way to buy Fell a plant that would stay in his space, reminding him of Crowley long after they'd parted ways, or why it suddenly felt so important to do just that.

But he couldn't  _ say  _ anything like that, so he pasted on his stupidest-looking sideways grin and revved the engine a little while they waited at a stoplight, then glanced over at Fell.

"Just enjoying the drive," he added, lightly. "And weren't we meant to continue the questions on our way? Thought you were looking for a particularly juicy story to ask me about."

"Oh!" Fell said, scrambling through the notebook sitting, apparently forgotten, on his lap. "Yes, of course. Terribly sorry. We really should keep working."

"Do you have the one about me kidnapping and eating someone's dog?" Crowley said, grateful for any distraction from the disturbing direction his thoughts had been taking.

"Kidnapping and—what?" Fell looked horrified, emotions parading over his face with absolutely no pretense or filter whatsoever.

Was Fell like this with everyone or had he also found himself utterly disarmed of all of his usual defenses when they were together? Before he could think too much about what that could mean, Crowley shut that thought down completely and filed it under 'won't matter in six weeks, so just forget about it.'

"I didn't," Crowley said, clearing his throat after he heard his voice come out rather higher than he would have liked. "Eat him, that is. I definitely kidnapped him...dognapped him, whatever, though."

"I see," Fell said, his face shuttering, the professional barrier going back up. "Would it be relevant to inquire as to why you stole someone's pet? Was there a—"

"He was awful to him. The owner was terrible to that dog," Crowley said, needing to make that blank look on Fell's face go away, but now he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to recount the whole story. His stomach was in knots at the idea, but his mouth, apparently, had other plans. "Would disappear for days without getting anyone to look in on him, come home and punish him for having accidents on the horrible carpet in his awful flat." Crowley tapped the steering wheel as he remembered how friendly the little dog had been after he'd gotten over his initial fear, how it had almost made him want to keep the dog for himself. He'd stayed with Crowley for a couple of days before he'd figured out what to do, but then he'd delivered the dog to his new family himself.

"And the dog now?"

"Rescue organization found a family in a little village just west of London," Crowley said, remembering that last drive with the dog, who'd been excited and wagging his tail as he'd watched the world whoosh by outside the window, and Crowley resolved immediately to leave out how much he'd wanted to turn the car around and keep him. "Heard the parents gifted him to their son for his birthday. Kid named him 'Dog.'" Crowley shrugged, pretending not to notice how soft Fell's eyes had become as Crowley continued the story. "I dunno," he said, shrugging. "Probably wasn't right, the way I did it—"

"It was," Fell said, the words rushing out of him, and when Crowley turned to look at him, he looked surprised to have said it. "I think you did exactly the right thing."

"Not really my thing, the  _ right  _ thing," Crowley said, facing front again, his eyes glued on the sparse traffic ahead of them. "This can't be in the book."

It took a moment before an answer came, several quickened thumps of Crowley's heart pounding in his chest as he waited.

"No, I suppose not," Fell agreed, and there were scratching sounds of his pen lining through some of his notes. Crowley still resolutely looked ahead. "There's really no way to recount that in a way that, well, in a way that fulfills the brief I've been given as a guideline."

"Unless you insinuate that I...dunno, sent the dog off to someone just as bad," Crowley forced himself to say, like a person who was not at all affected by the  _ moment  _ that was passing between them right now.

"Best not, I think," Fell said, giving a tiny, nervous laugh to punctuate.

"Right," Crowley said, when the ensuing silence went on too long. "Almost there, now. Probably don't have time for another question before we're there."

Without bothering to ask, Crowley flipped on the radio to chase away the quiet.

* * *

It didn't take a particularly insightful person to work out that Crowley was bothered by something, but Aziraphale couldn't decide whether it was a general distaste for the idea of the book or if something in particular had made him ill at ease. 

Turning the music on had put a definitive pause on their conversation, but it didn't mean Aziraphale had to stop working. He'd need paragraphs of descriptions featuring the man sitting next to him, and catching him while he was distracted by the radio and his attention was on the road was an excellent opportunity to write a few.

He rubbed the pen between his fingers, the polished barrel of it familiar in his hand. It was odd, perhaps, how much his old, worn pen grounded him, but it was certainly a welcome sensation. He was accustomed to feeling out of place as a rule, but he felt as though he'd reached a newly-complete understanding of the feeling here in Crowley's expensive car. How many years would Aziraphale have to work to earn the amount of money that had been spent on it? Then there was Crowley, himself, who sat beside him in his slim-fitting, casually elegant clothes that were probably made of fabrics Aziraphale had never heard of by designers who could charge hundreds of pounds for something as mundane as a tie.

Aziraphale had worked with wealthy people before, writing biographies of them that were pure vanity projects.  _ Their  _ stories were about the other rich and well-known people they rubbed elbows with, tales of expensive trips to the Riviera, or boasting of 'brilliant' business deals that sounded to Aziraphale as though they'd merely begun with enough money to obliterate their competition and then they'd nearly strained their shoulders afterward patting themselves on the back.

He scratched down a couple of half-hearted notes, trying to describe Crowley the way he was meant to for the book, but he couldn't get very far. The autobiography he was supposed to write was about a man he'd never met. It certainly couldn't be about the Crowley he'd become acquainted with. 

He sighed, trying not to draw too much attention to himself, and redoubled his efforts. Concentrating on the trappings Crowley surrounded himself with, the camouflage it was now clear to Aziraphale that he hid behind, he was able to force his way through a paragraph or so. 

Normally Aziraphale hated having to stop once he began writing, but everything he was putting on paper was a load of superficial bollocks. He wasn't troubled at all to be interrupted when Crowley pulled the car into a parking lot, gesturing out the window with a shrug at the sign for the plant nursery. 

Crowley was strangely quiet as they got out of the car and headed toward an area marked 'Indoor Plants', his hands—or three of his fingers, rather—stuffed into the improbably small front pockets of his trousers.

Not that Aziraphale had noticed Crowley's trousers, really, or how closely-tailored they were. That certainly wouldn't be appropriate.

"So, A—Alastair?" Crowley swiveled suddenly, and it took a moment for Aziraphale to pull himself out of his thoughts and answer.

"Not Alastair, I'm afraid," he said, lacing his hands together behind his back in a way he hoped looked relaxed and slipped past Crowley, making a show of examining each of the plants as he strolled by. He had no idea what he was looking at, but he needed to play for time while he shook some sense into himself.

"Pity. 'S a lovely name." Crowley paused. "Alan?"

"No, sorry," Aziraphale answered, picking up a nearby pot and squinting at its occupant, a hardy-looking little thing with shiny leaves.

"Fancy that one?"

"Well, I don't know, do I?" Aziraphale frowned at the plant, and then transferred that frown to Crowley. "I feel as though I'm choosing some poor victim for the chopping block, for all the luck I've had with plants in the past."

"Told you, Fell, I'll be around for a few weeks to help you with it. You'll get the hang of it." Crowley gestured widely around himself, his arms just this side of reckless as he flung them out. "Just start pointing at anything that catches your eye."

"I'm sure to choose something unsuitable. I have the worst luck with these sorts of things."

"Look, it doesn't matter. I just need to learn what you like." They looked at each other for a long moment while Aziraphale's thoughts traipsed joyfully into the weeds of irrelevant curiosities, wondering what it would be like for them to truly get to know one another much better. He knew it was madness, that Crowley had dozens of people who were more interesting and more handsome company than Aziraphale could offer, but it was becoming more difficult with every moment to deny how strongly he felt drawn toward Crowley. 

Crowley circled around him, choosing a larger plastic pot and lifting it up toward Aziraphale like an offering. The plant was deeply, verdantly green, with luxuriously thick and broad leaves.

"This one looks like you, doesn't it? Fiddleleaf fig tree. It'll begin like this and grow nice and tall, something substantial to really hold down one of those empty corners in your flat. What d'you think?"

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. 

"Oh, I don't think so. It's lovely, of course, but...well, I don't know. I suppose I was picturing something else. Something with more movement?"

Crowley laughed, genuine mirth radiating through his eyes, and Aziraphale realized with a start that Crowley had secreted those ever-present sunglasses into his jacket pocket for this outing. He seemed so much more genuine like this, divested of part of his armor.

"You realize you're getting a houseplant, not a pet?"

"Yes, all right," Aziraphale huffed. "I suppose it was rather a ridiculous thing to—" 

"Wait." Crowley craned his neck, looking over an aisle or two, clicking his tongue when he apparently spied what he was looking for. "Wait here, I'll be back."

Aziraphale watched as Crowley wound his way around the haphazardly placed plants, snaking his way over to a pot on its own, holding a leafy vine that wove its way around a thick post set in the middle of the dirt.

"Philodendron!" Crowley cried, brandishing the pot as he strode back toward Aziraphale. "It's a classic, this is. If you put one or two of these on top of those bookshelves of yours, it'll wind its way down and bring a little more life into your flat."

"Excuse me," Aziraphale said, affronted, "but there are thousands of stories... _ lives _ represented in those books."

"Another sort of life, Fell. Something more immediate." Crowley's tone was leading, cajoling, and it was impossible to stay annoyed with him. "Look, this isn't a knock on your books. I'm showing this to you because it will accentuate them."

Aziraphale looked down at the plant, really examining it for the first time. The leaves were heart-shaped, and he tried not to think too much about that.

"And you're certain I won't assassinate this poor fellow the moment you aren't around?"

"This plant is so easy to take care of that it's practically a cliche." Crowley massaged one of the leaves between his long, graceful fingers, seeming pleased with the feel of it. "Let the dirt get dry between waterings, give it something to hang onto, a little plant food now and then if you like, and Bob's your uncle."

Crowley began to say something about how it would be easy to tell if the plant was becoming overcrowded, and how simple it was to split it into multiple plants when it needed more space. Aziraphale's head began to swim when Crowley started talking about different fertilizers, how it would really only be important to use in the first days after a transplant, and somewhere in the middle of Aziraphale's befuddled blinking, it occurred to him that Crowley was throwing in bits of knowledge here and there that betrayed an awful lot of study. 

"Just…" Aziraphale interrupted, not unkindly, he hoped. "How do you know all of this?"

Crowley's mouth clamped shut, the hint of a blush—a  _ blush _ —coloring his normally unflappable face. Embarrassment, then. Aziraphale's mind whorled.

"D'you mean: What does an idiot, empty-headed playboy like myself know about—" 

"That's not what I said," Aziraphale cut in, sharply. "Don't put words in my mouth. You know as well as I do that this is all quite contrary to your reputation. If you'd rather not elaborate, fine, but it's my job to ask you questions, Crowley. It would be easier for the both of us if I could do so without you biting my head off."

Crowley hung his head a little, the plant pot he was still holding weighing more heavily in his hands as his shoulders drooped.

"Yeah, all right. Sorry." The apology was delivered to the ground between their shoes, but Aziraphale chose to accept it all the same. "Can't this be a thing you just... _ know _ about me? And we don't have to talk about it?"

"Of course," Aziraphale said, barely above a whisper. He wished Crowley would look up at him again, that the light and interest in his eyes before would come back. "Of course I can."

"Can't be in the book anyway." Crowley said, shrugging weakly. "My recommendations for maintaining the proper pH levels in soil would hardly have the pulp you're supposed to write flying off the shelves, now would it?"

Aziraphale knew he was right, but it didn't  _ seem  _ right. The Crowley he'd seen here, so full of life and humor and excitement; that man was so much richer and more intriguing than the person he pretended to be. How could anyone be more interested in the rumors when the truth of the man was so compelling?

"Certainly not," Aziraphale agreed, but he knew his agreement sounded flat and disingenuous. Crowley seemed happy enough to overlook that, and it was probably for the better. "Let's not speak of it again."

Crowley's phone beeped, as though it was taking pity on them and breaking the uncomfortable silence. Crowley fiddled with it for a moment, frowning as his lips moved just the tiniest amount as he apparently began to read something.

"Is that important?" Aziraphale asked. "Do you need to—"

"It's nothing. It's  _ literally _ nothing." The mobile went back into Crowley's pocket and was ignored, even as another beep sounded, and then another after that. 

"Are you certain—"

"Very." Crowley took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he breathed it out through his nose. "Now, would you like to begin with just one of these, or should we go with two for symmetry?"

"Well," Aziraphale began, still trying to shift his thoughts from wondering about Crowley's phone. "This one is quite the fine fellow. Perhaps it would be best for me not to split my attention while I'm still learning how to care for him."

"Sensible." Crowley nodded, taking off in the direction of the tills, and Aziraphale scrambled to keep up. 

"If you need to see to your messages, I can make the purchase and meet you at the car," Aziraphale offered, reaching out to take the plant as Crowley's phone bleated out another muted tone from inside his jacket pocket. 

"No!" Crowley clutched the pot closer to his chest, protecting it with one arm fully wound around it. "This is my gift to you, Fell, for consenting to have me in your home because my ridiculous place was impossible for you to work in."

"I suppose you'd consider it ungrateful of me to refuse?" Aziraphale said, trying to keep his tone light, but internally startling when their elbows brushed together as they walked.

"Too right," Crowley said, presenting the plant to the woman at the till with a smile Aziraphale was sure he should classify as 'smarmy', but unfortunately was causing his stomach to tighten as he tried to swallow through his suddenly too-dry throat. 

Somewhere in the middle of this, as Aziraphale was forcing himself to come back to equilibrium with a chant in his head that sounded remarkably like  _ he's a client and he's out of your league _ , Crowley had secured an unadvertised special discount offered by the store employee, pulled out a sheer black and featureless credit card the likes of which Aziraphale had never seen before to pay, and accepted the plant back once his wallet was set to rights.

"So, that's done, then," Aziraphale said, trailing after Crowley as he strode into the parking lot. "I do appreciate it. I don't think I've thanked you properly."

"Ah, stop it. 'S just a plant, and I'm practically forcing it on you," Crowley said, but he honestly wasn't treating it like 'just a plant'. He was currently, as it happened, securing it under a seat belt on the passenger-side rear seat. "You'd think you've never gotten a gift before."

Aziraphale felt his cheeks flame, stammering something about it simply being nice and trying not to tally up in his mind exactly how few real gifts he'd ever received.

"Look," Crowley began, slinking over to the driver's side, opening the door, and then resting his chin on his arms, which he'd crossed on the roof of the car. "You can't let it get out that I'm 'nice', and you certainly can't put anything about that in the book. You've got to make me a proper bastard." He bared his teeth, hissing a little, and Aziraphale concentrated on playing his role as a neutral-faced straight man to Crowley's cartoonish bad boy facade instead of melting into a puddle of goo. "I'm never nice," he said, stepping up on the car's open doorway to lean forward even more, scowling.

"Yes, all right," Aziraphale said, getting in. "You're terribly evil, of course. Now get in and drive so we can get back on schedule."

Crowley slumped into his seat, grinning, though he frowned again as he looked down at his watch.

"Oh, right, the schedule. We must be very far behind now." He looked directly at Aziraphale for a moment before pulling his sunglasses out of his jacket and putting them on, obscuring those fine, golden brown eyes again. "Tell you what...you can ask me whatever you like on the way back, no interruptions, and I'll actually answer without talking in circles." He cocked an eyebrow, barely visible over the top curve of the glasses. "Promise."

Aziraphale blinked a few times, like a car that was reluctant to start on a chilly morning, but his brain flared to life after a brief moment and he managed to start moving. He really did have to do something to keep his concentration levels higher when he was around Crowley. This constant woolgathering and blank-mindedness really needed to come to an end if he was to be any use at all.

"Well," Aziraphale said, opening his notebook to the marked page where the long list of rumors about Crowley's exploits began. He ran his finger down the list and suddenly remembered why he'd been avoiding a few of these until they had built a better and more professional rapport. "There is one…" he began, trailing off as he tried to swallow down the embarrassment at asking about this out loud. "It's about you being an anonymous bidder in an auction at Sotheby's of some unique...pop art pieces?"

Crowley threw his head back and laughed as he revved the engine, moving only to look over his shoulder before he pulled out of his parking space, though the laughter remained in the form of a delighted giggle.

"I know what you're talking about...Andrew?"

"You've already guessed Andrew," Aziraphale pointed out.

"You're keeping track?" Crowley said, groaning as he threw the car into gear to race off, back onto the roads. "Wait. Your name isn't  _ also  _ Anthony, is it? And you're not telling me because it would be awkward for us to have the same name?"

"That wouldn't be awkward," Aziraphale insisted. "For one, you won't even allow me to call you Anthony."

"Hey, it's not that I won't  _ let  _ you, I just prefer 'Crowley.'" Crowley snuck a peek over at Aziraphale between lane changes. "I'm not being an arsehole and making you call me by my last name as some weird power thing."

"It's," Aziraphale began, flabbergasted that Crowley genuinely looked concerned. "I believe you, it's fine. Don't even know why I said that."

It was a lie, though a tiny one. Aziraphale  _ had  _ wondered if the whole 'Crowley' business had been meant to keep them at arm's length from each other, a sign that Crowley was transferring his distaste of this tell-all book project to the author. It was nice to know this wasn't the case.

"But you're avoiding the question.  _ Are  _ you also a member of the Anthony club?"

"Sorry. It's a no, I'm afraid."

Crowley sighed, his shoulders rising and falling comically high and then low again, clearly for exaggerated effect.

"I'll get it, Fell. You know I will. But I promised not to talk you in circles, so why don't we get back to your question?"

The look on Crowley's face turned devious, and Aziraphale let out a long-suffering sigh.

"I take it you're going to make me say it? You clearly know to which auction I'm referring, and which lot you're said to have won."

"So what you're asking me is," and Crowley's mischievous grin spread widely across his face, reaching his eyes and lighting up all of his features (even his hair seemed impossibly redder and more vibrant) as he drew out his answer, "if I do, in fact, own a gold-plated and diamond-encrusted dil—er, personal massage aid?"

Crowley was clearly enjoying the idea of Aziraphale squirming in his seat, picturing this sort of preposterous sex toy and getting flustered. The cheek of it was just enough to remind Aziraphale that he was  _ also  _ capable of being an absolute bastard.

"It seems to me," Aziraphale said, carefully pronouncing each word, "that such a device is too impractical for actual use and would be just for show. Not for a serious connoisseur. Though," he paused, scratching out nonsense doodles to give the impression he was taking detailed notes about this conversation, "I'm not sure which side of that line you fall on, to be fair."

"Why, Fell," Crowley breathed, and it was clear he was trying to pretend his shock wasn't genuine, "are you absolutely  _ sure  _ you aren't an Anthony?"

"Quite certain." Aziraphale adjusted his jacket, pulled at his tie until it was straight. "Would you like me to put you down for a yes or a no on the decorative marital aids?"

"Surprise me," Crowley said, after a too-long moment during which he looked softly delighted. "Whatever you think will read as more scandalous."

Silence reigned in the interior of the car again and Aziraphale looked over his notes, somehow feeling that now wasn't the time to try to segue into one of the other rumors.

"Have dinner with me," Crowley finally said, breaking into the quiet, and he cleared his throat afterward as he ran a hand through his hair. Aziraphale's stomach tightened again at the idea that Crowley was somehow nervous about asking.

"We really should get back to work," Aziraphale said, his voice sounding lower and rougher than he'd intended.

"Ask me whatever you like at the restaurant."

Normally Aziraphale would have refused, knowing that engaging in too many social events with a client would color his impressions and hurt the final product. In this case, though, he'd already promised Officer Young he would try to determine how involved Crowley might be with the rest of his family, and Crowley's well-being might well depend on the outcome of the NCA's investigation.

When he shrugged and stammered out a gravelly-sounding 'yes' a moment later, that was exactly the reason he'd agreed. It didn't have anything to do with wanting to spend more time with Crowley, or needing to know how far this feeling of connection would go.

Certainly not.


	6. Dinner and Dancing

Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

Why had he asked that way, Crowley wondered, as his heart was beating too bloody fast and trying to crawl up his throat. He'd made it sound like a date.

_ Was  _ it a date?

He glanced over in his peripheral vision just to see Fell running the end of his capped pen over the careful lines of script in the notebook on his lap. His mind was obviously still on the book. He'd seemed to enjoy the plant nursery, but perhaps he'd just been hiding his exasperation at Crowley's constant delays. 

So. Not a date, then. Probably. Maybe. Or was it?

The thought took hold of him by the throat, and something humiliatingly like hope washed over him as he tried to think of somewhere to take them where he could...what? Show Fell something he hadn't seen before? Treat him to something expensive so that some of his family's dirty money would at least do  _ something  _ good?

In a few weeks, the two of them would part ways. Fell would go on to another project and Crowley would go back to his life of conspicuous idiocy so that his family could continue to use him as a distraction. Better not to get too attached. Better not to watch him slip into the trappings of Crowley's life and make Crowley wish he could stay there.

"Why don't you choose the place?" Crowley said, proud of himself for regaining the unaffected tone in his voice. "Anywhere you like."

"Anywhere?" Fell responded, sounding intrigued. 

"Well," Crowley hedged, wondering if Fell had read all those stories about him hopping on private jets just to get a quick meal in Vienna or Paris and wanted a taste of that luxury himself. Crowley had only done things like that when someone in his social circle offered, and really just to keep up the image he was meant to project. Was that really what Fell still thought of him? "Within driving distance?"

"Oh! Of course," Fell sputtered, his eyes blinking and his chest heaving with a couple of deep breaths. "I never would have taken advantage—"

"I know," Crowley said, cutting him off before he could finish. "Well, I should have known. Of course you wouldn't."

"There's a little place, and it's not too far from here. Twenty minutes, give or take, if that's not too much?"

"'Course," Crowley said, shrugging and trying to remain casual. Or rather, trying to keep himself from looking away from the road for a dangerous amount of time so that he could see Fell's eyes when he told him they could go to the  _ moon  _ if he wanted.

"Lovely. I'll direct you there." 

Crowley could  _ hear _ him beaming, the directions tripping off his tongue with a growing sound of breathless anticipation making its way into his voice.

"Just where are we going?" Crowley growled, covering his embarrassingly fond reaction to Fell's obvious, quiet glee as they grew closer to their destination.

"What would you say to some crêpes?"

* * *

Aziraphale led the way into the restaurant, and it wasn't until his hand fell on the door to open it that it occurred to him to worry. Crowley was terribly posh—well, perhaps not posh, precisely, but quite flash—and Aziraphale's well-loved little hole in the wall might not be the sort of place Crowley would enjoy.

"Mr. Fell! Welcome back," he heard, just a moment after the door had shut behind them, and he supposed this  _ really  _ hadn't been the place to bring Crowley if he'd wanted more anonymity.

Maud waved them over to the counter, taking both of Aziraphale's hands in hers and squeezing them tightly before letting go.

"Brought me another customer, I see," she said, looking Crowley over. "Your usual order, Mr. Fell?"

"I think we may have to consider the menu for a moment," Aziraphale stammered, wondering what Crowley thought of the place.

"Someone who loves crêpes as much as I do, they deserve the best treatment." Maud's eyes darted to Crowley again, and then back to Aziraphale, where they twinkled far too obviously in delight.

"Anthony Crowley," Crowley said, and when Aziraphale turned to look at him, he also had a gleam in his eyes.

Ah, yes. This  _ had  _ been a mistake.

"Wonderful to meet you," Maud said, nodding as though she was giving her approval to the two of them being here together. "Have you known my lovely Fell for long, Mr. Crowley?" 

"Just Crowley," and when Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, he was grinning. "And no, we haven't known each other very long."

"Well," Maud began, leaning heavily on her hands and taking a deep breath, and suddenly Aziraphale  _ truly  _ didn't want to hear whatever she was about to say next. He had to change the subject.

"Yes, the usual!" He giggled nervously and nodded to the chalkboard menu over Maud's head. "Sounds even more scrumptious than ever today." Maud still hadn't stopped her appraising glances between them, so he spoke up again. "Really quite famished this evening. Skipped breakfast." And no, she still hadn't moved to write anything down. "How is Lesley?" he attempted, one last, desperate stab at leading Maud to talk about  _ anything  _ else. Lesley and Maud were so  _ wonderfully  _ in love with each other, and Aziraphale had to believe that if this wouldn't get her onto another subject, nothing would.

"Ah, my Lesley," she sighed, throwing her head back and putting a hand over her heart. "He's out on a delivery, bless him. Insists on making all our deliveries on his own. My little tiger."

"Well, if I miss him tonight, you'll give him my best, won't you?" Aziraphale said, sighing internally with relief to have moved on. "Crowley, have you had a chance to look over the offerings?"

"Oh, just make me whatever he's having," Crowley said, still grinning at Maud as he waved a hand toward Aziraphale. "If we're here on your recommendation, I'm sure everything's delicious."

"Right," Maud said, nodding at them, and then she winked at Aziraphale. It made him choke a little, which he covered with a cough when he heard Crowley's stifled laughter.

Aziraphale found himself in terrible danger of blushing and stammering for what seemed the hundredth time today, so he did the only thing he could think of—he professed a sudden desire for meticulously clean hands and excused himself off to the restroom.

* * *

Crowley waited until Fell had left and then turned back to Maud, who was (bless her) still looking at him as though she had reams of stories about the mysterious A.Z. Fell to tell him. She glanced down from time to time to pour out some batter or slice through a few ingredients as she worked, but she was certainly about to burst. All Crowley had to do was give her the right nudge toward spilling it.

"Lovely place you've got here," he began, taking in for the first time just how well everything around him had been cared for. Everything was bright and clean, laid out perfectly so that Maud could use it all without having to strain or reach.

"My Lesley did this for me. Knew it was my dream, and he worked and saved until he'd built up enough for us to take the plunge. Did all the research, planned the whole place."

"Hope I get to meet him," Crowley offered, wondering how to craft his segue when Maud turned the conversation all on her own.

"I was hoping to meet  _ you _ , someday," she said, looking directly at him while she sliced a strawberry into thin, perfectly even slices. "I hate that Mr. Fell eats alone."

"Oh, it's not—"

Maud tutted, and he stopped himself before he got to the utter bollocks that was about to come out of his mouth. He knew what he was like when he was—ugh, did he really just think the word 'smitten' inside his own mind?—and Maud herself was so overflowing with affection that she must simply be attuned to it in general.

"We don't know each other well," he said, and then realized that wasn't right either. "Well, we haven't known each other for long." He thought about it again, how crazy it was for him to feel this way  _ already _ , when it obviously would never work out. "I don't even know his first name, can you believe that? He won't tell me."

"Ah, well," Maud said, shrugging. "I don't know it either, so I'm afraid I can't help you."

"So you could tell I was fishing for it?" Crowley laughed when that made her giggle. Oh, he  _ liked  _ Maud.

"You are  _ not  _ subtle, duckie." Maud shook her head. "Mr. Fell always pays in cash. Hates when I call him  _ Mr.  _ Fell, but he's very tight-lipped about his name. I can hardly just call him Fell. It's so hard—doesn't suit him."

"It doesn't, does it?"

"Mr. Fell is—and I'll wager I shouldn't be telling you this—the loveliest person I've met." She thought for a moment. "Other than my Lesley, of course."

"Of course," Crowley agreed. "I don't disagree, but I'd  _ love  _ to hear your evidence."

Maud gave a long look at the hand-stenciled door leading to the men's, and when it didn't move, she appeared to make her decision. She moved closer to Crowley again and leaned forward on the counter, motioning him in so she could whisper.

"Mr. Fell found us not long after we'd opened. Times were rough then, Mr. Crowley, I won't pretend they weren't. We were struggling. I think he might have overheard us worrying together in the back room over a bill during one of his visits and I found a hundred pound note in the tip jar after he'd left." Her eyes got a little misty, and there was that hand over her heart again. "Got a fair few customers in after that, too, telling us he'd recommended the place to them."

"And now?" Crowley inquired, unaccountably concerned about Fell losing his favorite takeaway.

"Thriving," she told him, grinning. "But it was a near thing back then, Mr. Crowley. If nothing else, he gave us hope. The will to stick it out." Her eyes darted to the closed door again. "He was a miracle to us."

Crowley just stood there, gawping at her, until Maud looked over at her griddles again.

"Ah, you're nearly done. I'll have these out in a jiffy." She changed her gloves and went back to work, laying out the last ingredients and adding the finishing touches before she folded each little work of art together, but then she leaned forward again. "Please don't tell him I told you any of that. He doesn't know we know. I think he'd be frightfully embarrassed."

"Right," Crowley agreed, getting the word out just before the door opened and Fell joined them again.

"Eating here, or takeaway?" Maud asked.

"Oh, here, I should think," Fell answered for them.

"Probably be a rush on in fifteen minutes or so. Theater just down the street," Maud said, jerking her head off to the left, presumably toward the theatergoers that were about to descend upon her. "You know the quiet table in the back corner, Mr. Fell. I'd recommend that."

"Yes, thank you, my dear. That should do nicely." Fell got out his wallet, beginning to pull out a few notes, and Crowley's protests were barely audible over Maud's.

"I'm  _ getting _ this—" Crowley said, and he rested his hands over Fell's before he'd really had a chance to think it over. They were soft, Fell's hands. Smooth and silky skin against Crowley's fingertips, and he should really pull back.

He didn't.

"This order is on Lesley and me, and I won't hear another word about it," Maud declared. Both of them looked over to argue with her, but her graceful index finger pointed back at them stopped them in their tracks. She was clearly not a woman to be defied.

"Thank you, my dear," Fell whispered, reaching forward for two of the plates, and Crowley scooped up the other two.

They talked non-stop throughout the meal—the best conversation Crowley had ever had, though he had a feeling he wouldn't be able to recall a word of it later. Their laughter rang over even the loudest of the theatergoers, and Crowley found himself leaning his chin heavily on his palm and just...staring...after he'd offered the remainder of his sweet crêpe for Fell to finish.

Smitten. There was that ridiculous word again, dancing between his thoughts as he cast around his memory for stories they could laugh about together. The corners of Fell’s eyes crinkled when he was truly amused, and Crowley wanted to see it again and again.

Smitten.

* * *

Aziraphale had just finished the remains of their order, biting his lip when he realized how he'd fairly inhaled Crowley's leftovers when they were offered. Crowley must have found that off-putting, now that the haze of pleasure at having a few extra bites had waned enough for Aziraphale to think more clearly.

He was trying to think of a self-deprecating joke that could make light of the whole thing, perhaps reiterate that he'd skipped a meal earlier that day, when Crowley lifted his chin off his palm where it had been resting and tore his mobile out of his pocket, swearing under his breath at it.

"What is it?" Aziraphale asked, nervously arranging and rearranging his cutlery over the empty plates in front of him.

"Oh," Crowley began, stabbing at the device and frowning at it, "just someone who can't take 'no' for an answer."

"I imagine you receive quite a lot of attention, Crowley. You must be well practiced with artful dismissals." Aziraphale thought it over, wondering if perhaps Crowley was looking for a polite way to end their time together for the day. He must be getting better offers by the dozen on his mobile. "If it's me you're concerned about, you needn't bother. Should you wish to meet one of your friends now, I can see myself home. There's a bus that—"

"Don't be daft," Crowley growled, looking up and frowning at Aziraphale before he tapped at his screen again, the movements of his fingers wild as his mouth twisted. "I'm seeing you home. Of  _ course  _ I'm seeing you home."

"Well," Aziraphale hedged, wondering if this wasn't just some misplaced sense of duty. "Perhaps if you told me what the trouble is, if it isn't too personal?" 

Crowley let out a great sigh, the compact stretch of his wiry chest heaving with it.

"Friend of mine," he said, shaking his head at the mobile before placing it, face down, on the table and sliding it a minute distance away from himself. "She wants to thank me for something, keeps insisting I should meet up with her at this club." He squinted at the phone again as it buzzed merrily against the surface of the table.

"Honestly, I know the way between here and my flat very well. If you have a...a date, it's no trouble—"

"'S not a date," Crowley said, the words tumbling over each other, almost becoming one long portmanteau, and then he frowned again.

Aziraphale thought for a moment, trying not to let himself read too much into Crowley refusing to part ways. Perhaps he was still feeling guilty for arriving so late for their appointment, or for how little work Aziraphale had been able to do around the outings they'd indulged in.

He really did need to make more progress—if not on the book, on the observation of Crowley that Officer Young had asked of him. And with that thought, it came to him, all at once.

"I need more fodder for the book," Aziraphale said, carefully choosing his words. "If you were to make an appearance at this club and I were to tag along, I could take notes."

"It's just a club. It's all exactly what you'd think."

"I wouldn't know  _ what  _ to think," Aziraphale told him. "I've never been to one."

"Of course you're too sensible for that. Why would you have? They're boring," Crowley said, but Aziraphale could tell he was winning him over.

"You could make an appearance, appease your friend. She seems quite persistent." Crowley's face relaxed at that. "I could accompany you." He cleared his throat, wondering what Crowley would be like there. Would he dance for hours again, as he'd apparently done the night before? What would he look like, rosy-cheeked and breathless, brow glistening with sweat?

"Watch the local idiot in his natural habitat," Crowley mumbled.

"Oh, so you've peeked at my notes?" Aziraphale waited, watching Crowley's brow furrow as Aziraphale's teasing dig sank in. "I certainly wouldn't make such harsh judgments in my personal research, and now that I'm thinking of it, I can't write a convincing portrait of someone in the clubbing lifestyle—"

"Lifestyle?" Crowley parroted, and Aziraphale's stomach lurched at how temptingly his minor outrage at the phrasing layered over his handsome features.

"—in the clubbing lifestyle," Aziraphale repeated, "if I know nothing about it myself."

"S'pose you're right," Crowley said, looking a little sad as he scooped up his mobile, tapping out a new message. Aziraphale wanted to reach out and still his hand, confess that he really just didn't want the evening to end.

Instead, he sat quietly as Crowley finished, and the two of them bid Maud goodbye as they made their way back to the car.

* * *

The club's music was pulsing right through the closed doors, vibrating into the soles of Crowley's feet as they approached. Fell started to break off from him toward the end of the line snaking its way around the side of the building, so Crowley took him gently by the elbow and led him up to the bouncer, who merely nodded at Crowley and pushed one of the doors open for them to slip through.

The multicolor lights sweeping and strobing against the walls made the interior of the club brighter than it had been outside, and Crowley's fingers itched to put his glasses back on until he gave in, plucking them from his pocket and pushing them into place over his eyes. Bodies were packed onto the dance floor, and the DJ had the volume cranked so high that Crowley couldn't think. He'd have to get them somewhere quieter if he wanted to keep at least some of his wits about him.

He was reaching for his wallet while exchanging a quick word (soon to be followed by a few folded pound notes) with club security to get the entry code to the ultra VIP area when he realized his hand had remained loosely looped into the crook of Fell's arm. He withdrew, reflexively stretching out his fingers once they were no longer in contact, and noted with regret the way Fell pulled his own arm closer into his body, rubbing lightly over his elbow with his other hand.

Crowley really needed to remember not to manhandle him, as he was clearly uncomfortable with the way Crowley had subconsciously found a way for them to connect. The book was already going to make him look like the worst sort of sleazy arsehole; there was no need to give Fell more reasons to describe him as a creep.

Tracy found them while Crowley was still shuffling his wallet away, running up to him from where she'd been holding court in a corner booth and pulling him down to kiss him on both cheeks.

"Oh, love. Thanks ever so much for coming." She held onto his hands and pulled back, blinking her outrageously long fake eyelashes as she took him in. "Wouldn't feel right, letting the day end without a proper thank you. Let's put in an order for you, pet. Anything you like, don't worry about the price."

Crowley...well, Crowley was managing a lot of things all at once. He was trying to hear Tracy over the pounding bass and the tumult of voices coming from the people who were packed into the club around them, he was desperately trying to keep track of anything he'd need to explain away to Fell once they were somewhere quieter, and he was  _ still  _ trying to ignore the tingling in the hand that had recently been nestled in Fell's arm.

"No need for that, Trace, really."

"Don't be daft," she shot back. "I insist. If you hadn't come by—"

"Have I introduced my friend to you?" Crowley yelled, speaking quickly and far louder than necessary in his panic to cut Tracy off before she revealed anything embarrassing. 

Tracy's pleasant, slightly soused smile turned appraising, and then intrigued, as she took in Fell, who offered his hand and introduced himself. 

"You must be Crowley's date from earlier!" she enthused, giving Crowley a sly smile. "Oh, bugger. I must have been such a pest, my bloody texting interrupting your—"

"He's been hired to write a book about me, the poor bastard," Crowley interrupted again, unwilling to hear the rest. "My parents are commissioning it. He's stuck with me until he can come up with material enough to fill a book describing what a prat I am." He thought about it for a moment. "He'll probably have enough to go on by Sunday noon."

"Ooh, I can tell you a few stories about this one," Tracy laughed, poking a finger in Crowley's direction. "Has he told you about the time where we—" 

"Got the code to the ultra room," Crowley said, interrupting her yet again, and he narrowed his gaze at her when he realized how brightly her eyes were sparkling with mischief. "We're going there first to let Fell get his bearings. I'll text you the code in a bit."

"Watch out for this one," Tracy said, leaning in close to Fell as she let her eyes wander over to Crowley. "He can be quite the flirt."

"Perhaps it's Crowley who should watch out for me," Fell offered, his voice barely raised from his normal tone, and yet he was somehow still completely understandable.

"Oh, we're going to be friends, I can see that now," Tracy said, patting Fell on the shoulder before giving them both a gentle push toward the elevator. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she added. "But don't worry, loves, that list isn't very long." And with a swirl of wispy chiffon, Tracy returned to her corner booth.

Crowley was already reaching out to lead Fell away and pulled back at the absolute last moment before contact. He could feel his jaw working with exasperation at himself as he turned and simply started walking, hoping Fell would follow along. Despite the slight trembling of his hand, Crowley got the code tapped into the panel next to the call button and the doors immediately fell open for them.

* * *

Aziraphale knew he should be taking notes—if not physically, at least mentally—but he couldn't stop watching Crowley. This was supposed to be his territory, the way he was played off in the press as someone who was more at home in a place like this than his own flat, but it was clear to Aziraphale that nothing could be further from the truth.

He should be annoyed with Crowley for whisking him away from exactly what he'd come here to observe, but instead his heart was racing with anticipation. It wasn't as though they'd never been alone before—the hours spent over the past two whirlwind days in each of their flats were far more isolated from the rest of the world than this—and yet Aziraphale could hardly keep his fingers curled around his notebook for how shaky he felt.

Had Crowley done this before? How many times had he taken someone he barely knew into this elevator for...well, Aziraphale could hardly imagine what might have come next. Anyone familiar with Crowley's reputation would have assumed it was a frequent occurrence, but Aziraphale had his doubts. Crowley didn't seem anything  _ like  _ comfortable here.

Oh, his fingers were itching to take notes now, but it wouldn't be anything he could use for the book. He wanted to paint a portrait of Crowley in words that were worthy of him, that could capture his uncomplicated enjoyment of the plants at the nursery or describe the way his face twisted up when he was annoyed with something.

"Spend a lot of my time at the club up here," Crowley said, throwing out his arm to indicate the room surrounding them, and Aziraphale blinked against the darkness and concentrated on taking it all in.

It was a lot like Crowley's flat, really, sleek furnishings that looked as though they'd been engineered to minimize comfort. There was a particular chair in the corner that looked as though the concept of a chair had been poorly described to someone who'd never seen one before, who then went on to build one.

"Would you like them to bring something up? No food here, but the bar's well stocked and they can mix anything you'd like."

"Better not," Aziraphale said, shaking his head and wondering if he should try to find himself some sort of arrangement for sitting down with his notes. "My tolerance isn't very high, and if I'm to use this time as research…" He trailed off, feeling the divot in his forehead deepen as he worried that he was doing everything wrong. Crowley was almost surely in danger, and Aziraphale had done precious little to aid in the investigation that might secure his safety. And even if Officer Young had it all wrong, there was the frightening certainty that he was well behind schedule to finish this book using the pittance of information he'd managed to scrounge together.

"Yeah, research. I can help with that, actually." Crowley strode over to yet another high-tech panel at the end of a drape-lined wall. With a few taps, the curtains slid open to reveal a long line of windows looking out over the club, giving them an aerial view over the entire first floor. "One way mirror," Crowley said, shrugging. "'S why it's so dark in here, so that we can see out but they can't see in."

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed, walking closer to take in the visual cacophony of bright lights sweeping over the sea of dancing bodies. "I can certainly use this as a quite vivid description of what it's like, being here." He frowned, bringing up his notebook. "Would you mind if I…?"

"No, you should," Crowley said, crumpling himself into the not-really-a-chair Aziraphale had examined earlier and throwing his limbs out in random directions. "Let me know when you need something a little more personal and I can," he said, pausing while his lips thinned into an annoyed pucker, "head down and make an arse of myself."

"You don't seem to enjoy this very much," Aziraphale offered. "Is this where you were out dancing this morning?"

Crowley took several long moments before answering, his fingers working against each other as he thought.

"I'll tell you anything you want to know about this place," he began, "and I'll even go down there and act it out for you." His eyes were tired, pleading under his narrowed eyelids. "Let's just not talk about this morning."

Aziraphale's stomach dropped, wondering if Crowley hadn't been dancing at all, if perhaps he'd been in the middle of some sort of...assignation and hadn't wanted to be interrupted just to help the frumpy author who'd been assigned to work on his memoirs. He wouldn't press, deciding he'd let it alone (a voice in the back of his mind insisted that he simply  _ didn't want to know _ ) unless it became necessary information for either Officer Young or the book.

"Of course," Aziraphale said, forcing a bright smile onto his face and hating how uncomfortable they both were. He wished they could go back to the restaurant or the plant nursery, or at least the way he'd felt when they were there. He'd even welcome Crowley's habit of trying to guess his name if it would only cut the thick, uncomfortable tension between them now.

And  _ there  _ was an idea.

"I'm rather worried you aren't feeling well," Aziraphale said, his tone light. The pounding of the music from downstairs punctuated the silence he let pass like a heartbeat, pulling him along as though he was in a dream. "You haven't tried to guess my first name for hours."

Crowley looked confused for a moment, then amusement seemed to break over his face like the sun coming up over the horizon after a long, moonless night.

"I haven't, have I?" Crowley's body language loosened, his head bobbing a bit with delight as his mouth stretched into a wide, toothy smile. "Austin?" he proposed, innocently.

Aziraphale let his face scrunch up with faux annoyance.

"No, don't be ridiculous."

"What?" Crowley threw his head back, stretching out his arms for a moment, and just the tiniest sliver of belly appeared between Crowley's skin-tight shirt and his absurdly uncomfortable-looking trousers. "Knew a bloke named Austin once, lovely man."

"I'm sure he was, but that isn't my name."

"Ay...An...Ad…" Crowley tried, not seeming satisfied with any of those beginnings. "Alonzo?" he cried, triumphantly. "That's got to be it, doesn't it?"

"No," Aziraphale managed, around the laughter he wasn't bothering to stifle. It was just such a relief, finding something the two of them could go back to like a touchstone, a way for them to reset when they were both so out of sorts.

"Shame. Wonderful name, Alonzo."

"If ever I meet one, I'll be sure to tell him you think so." Aziraphale looked down again, pretending to be taking notes, but instead doodled the name 'Alonzo' on the page as though he was back in secondary school and mooning over a crush.

"All right, Fell. I'll think of more names while you take your notes. And shite, I'd better text Tracy the code before she tries to break in. Wanted to get you settled in before she came rushing in being distracting."

"On the contrary," Aziraphale said, feeling like a bit of a bastard, "I'd wager I could get a lot of material for the book from her. You seem to know each other well."

"Known each other for a while," Crowley hedged. "You can use anything she tells you in the book, just…" He stretched out again after pocketing his phone, that little strip of skin reappearing. Aziraphale looked away. "Take anything she tells you with a grain of salt, all right?"

"Of course," he agreed, forcing himself to turn a page and begin to take notes on his surroundings. He chose his words carefully, describing the fascinating bedlam of undulating bodies on the dance floor and the abundant decadence of the decor and free-flowing alcohol. The novelty of it was nearly enough to take his mind off Crowley and the way his face had lit up when Aziraphale had goaded him into making more attempts at guessing his first name.

He worked this way for a half hour or so, Crowley slowly and haphazardly pacing the room like a caged animal who couldn't quite work out whether it wanted to break out or not. Crowley's friend Tracy had yet to join them, so the only sound, save the pulsing of the music, was the scratch of Aziraphale's pen against the paper. He made a surprising amount of headway, the words coming to him as quickly as the ink could flow, barely noticing when Tracy joined them again. Trying to stay focused, he blocked them out until the mild distress in Tracy's voice filtered through.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, blinking owlishly at them where they were stood at the one-way mirror, trading hissed, exasperated-sounding words with each other. "Is something the matter?"

"Just a friend of ours, love," Tracy said, sitting down near him and heaving a deep sigh. "Getting herself into a spot of trouble again."

"I'll go down there," Crowley growled, straightening his jacket before he strode over to the elevator and punched with abrupt, staccato jabs of his finger at the button. "Be right back, all right?"

"Yes, dove, thanks for this." Tracy's hands worried at the edge of her clothing, though she managed an encouraging smile for Crowley before he left. "She's a lovely girl," Tracy muttered to herself, "but she doesn't half know how to pick a fight with the wrong people."

"Oh." Aziraphale hadn't considered that there might be actual violence. "Are you certain Crowley and your friend will be all right?"

"Crowley can handle it, don't you worry. He could sweet-talk the devil himself." She scooted closer, leaning in. "Why, he helped me with something quite similar earlier today. It's why he was late to your date. Oh, and I'm ever so sorry about that."

"It's not a—" Aziraphale began, cutting himself off to concentrate on something infinitely more relevant. "Did you just say that Crowley was helping  _ you  _ earlier today? I was under the impression he'd been here, or somewhere like this."

"Ugh," Tracy groaned, rolling her eyes theatrically. "That  _ man _ ! He's just set on never letting anyone know what sort of person he is." She reached forward, taking Aziraphale's hand firmly between both of hers. "If he's putting on an act for you, dearie, that's all it is. He's as gentle as a lamb, deep down, our Crowley."

"He...he's…" Aziraphale stammered, then cleared his throat and shook his head. "May I ask, if it's all right, how exactly he came to your aid earlier today?"

"Well," Tracy began, looking around as though she was concerned someone would eavesdrop. "It's my line of work, you see." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Strict discipline for the discerning gentleman, by private appointment only, and usually better vetted than the man I called on this morning."

"I see," he said evenly, sensing that Tracy was still testing him to see if he'd think less of her because of her chosen vocation. "And there was a misunderstanding, I take it?"

"Yes. Got the wrong idea, that one, completely misread my advertisement." She whispered even more quietly. "Kept trying to talk me into services that aren't on the menu."

"He didn't—"

"No, love. Just asked me for 'clarifications' too many times and I got spooked. He didn't mean any harm, really, just misunderstood the arrangement. 'Course, I'd already messaged Crowley when I wasn't sure how it would go, and he swept in and sorted it out. No violence, pet, I promise. Crowley's always been able to help like that, smooths everything over."

"So he's helped you this way before?"

"Not very often. As I said, I normally vet my clients to avoid these little unpleasantries." Tracy's face softened. "He's been on his own so long, Crowley. Trusts a few of us at least a little, but even we don't make it past those walls of his."

"Do you," Aziraphale began, his voice cracking until he swallowed, hard. "Do you know why?"

"Not exactly." Tracy shook her head, sadness pulling at the corners of her mouth. "That family of his—well, they're awful to him. Don't think he's known a single moment of affection from any of them, and they only come around when they need something. He has as little to do with them as possible, bless him."

"I feel as though I'm working for the enemy," Aziraphale confessed to her. "His family contracted my firm for this book."

"Be careful there," Tracy said, squeezing his hands to punctuate. "They're into things you don't want to be a part of, love."

"And is Crowley?" He paused, steeling himself for the answer. "Is he a part of it?"

"No." Tracy's head shake was almost violent now. "He'd never, dearie.  _ Never _ ."

"I see." Though Aziraphale had suspected as much, a wave of relief passed over him at the moment he became certain of Crowley's innocence. 

"Write what you have to," she told him. "I expect you'll need to do as they say to keep him safe. But," she paused, her eyes pleading, "do what you can for him, where you can? Spare him the worst of it?"

"You have my word," he promised, and at that, she let his hands go. 

They sat there in uncomfortable silence until Crowley and a striking young woman with nearly waist-length black hair burst out of the elevator, arguing back and forth with each other.

* * *

By the time Crowley found Anathema, she'd gotten herself hip-deep in an argument about soil contamination in the UK and the current administration's policies only making things worse, debating the issue with a cadre of tipsy-looking men in expensive suits who were infuriating her with phrases like "economic impact." 

He'd like to say he extricated her using his wits and powers of persuasion, but in the end, he'd only drawn her attention when he told her (as a last resort) that he'd brought someone with him and he wanted Anathema to meet him. They'd still been arguing about whether Crowley was currently on a date or not when the elevator doors had threatened to open and spill the whole embarrassing thing where Fell could hear it, but Anathema must have taken pity on him and cut herself off as soon as they would have been in earshot.

Anathema immediately zeroed in on Fell and set off toward him like a contraband-sniffing dog, settling in next to Tracy and introducing herself.

"Go ahead, ask what his first name is," Crowley told her, grinning when Fell gave him a deep sigh and rolled eyes. "What? I never said I wouldn't try to use informants to figure out what it is."

"I'm A.Z. Fell," Fell told Anathema, and they were still shaking hands when Tracy broke into the introduction.

"He's a writer," Tracy said. "Ever so smart, this one. Doing a book about our Crowley."

"A book?" Anathema twisted around to look at Crowley.

"What? You don't think people want to read about me and my—oh, bugger it, I can't even pretend I warrant it. My family wants it done. They don't feel whole unless I'm out here making the biggest arsehole imaginable out of myself."

"Well, that's just ridiculous." Anathema faced Fell again, tapping on the surface of his notebook with one of her fingers. "If you want stories about Crowley, let me tell you about what he did for me with the paparazzi." Her eyes widened, looking right at Fell, as though she was waiting for him to start taking notes before she'd even begun talking.

"Nope!" Crowley announced. "He can't use that story, Anathema, so you may as well not waste all of our time with it. My  _ family  _ is paying for this book. It'll say what  _ they  _ want it to say and nothing else."

"All the same, I would be interested in hearing your tale about the paparazzi, Ms. Device. If you wouldn't mind?" Fell was poised to write, smiling encouragingly at her.

"Of course," she began, but Crowley had to put an end to this before it got any further. He hadn't helped Anathema because he wanted to impress anyone. He'd helped her because getting one over on the paps was always an amazing time, and Anathema was a decent person who hadn't deserved what she'd been put through.

"No one's wasting his time with material he can't use," Crowley growled, fixing Anathema with one of his darker looks. He must have been doing it wrong, though, as she seemed remarkably unaffected.

"Well, it's time we let the two of you alone. I really should be getting down to the main floor," Tracy said, as though she'd suddenly remembered an important appointment elsewhere. "Just wanted to come up and say hello." She stared at Anathema, bugging out her eyes, and then jerked her head minutely in the direction of the elevator when the message didn't seem to make it through.

"Oh!" Anathema said, far too loudly, as the light dawned. "I should really go...too?"

Tracy badly covered her laugh at Anathema's questioning tone, and Crowley considered the merits of simply hurling himself through the nearest convenient window.

They got up and bustled their way toward the elevator, and Crowley prayed to deities he didn't even believe in that Fell hadn't heard Anathema protesting to Tracy under her breath that she'd only just arrived and now she was being hustled away. He'd had to turn around to make sure he could maintain his composure, which felt at least a little easier once their two guests were gone.

"So," Crowley began, drawing out the vowel to play for time. "Those are two of my friends."

"They're lovely, Crowley, really. Both of them seem to think the world of you, as well."

"Well, no one's accused them of being good judges of character." He shrugged, pretending he didn't see Fell looking at him like he was a puzzle whose answer was right on the tip of his tongue. "D'you think I should go down there too? Give you a front row seat to watch me being a prat?"

"Is there some reason you wouldn't like me to go with you?"

"You…" Crowley began, but his mind blanked. Fell didn't belong down there with the people who got too close on the dance floor, the ones who flocked around when they thought they might like to talk you into a quick fumble in a bathroom stall. "You wouldn't like it," he finished, lamely.

"Well, how am I to know what I'm missing if I don't?" Fell stood up, dropping his notebook on the leather sofa, and just looked at Crowley. His face was unreadable.

"Nothing," Crowley answered, too quickly. "You're missing nothing at all. Dancing. Drinking, which you've already said you're not interested in. And a sea full of people who are mostly complete tossers."

"So you'd go down there to dance, I assume? After all the dancing you did last night and this morning?"

"Yes," Crowley said, nodding in a way he knew was idiotic, but he was helpless to stop himself. "Got a lot of stamina, me."

"I'm certain that's true," Fell said, his voice breaking, and he cleared his throat. "And as entertaining as I'm sure that would be to watch, I hardly need a demonstration in order to write about it."

"Drawing from personal experience?" Crowley asked, finally beginning to enjoy the conversation again. He sat on the arm of the sofa, one foot still on the floor and the other on the seat cushion.

"I only know one dance, I'm afraid, and it certainly wouldn't be the one you would—"

"Which one?" When Fell's mouth clamped shut, he knew he'd struck some sort of gold here. "C'mon, I have to know."

"It was a very long time ago, and it hardly matters now. We're meant to be talking about you, and—"

"And I need to know if your dancing knowledge is sufficient to describe this for my book," Crowley insisted, loving the huffy little look on Fell's face. "The hustle? Running man?" He grinned. "The Lambada?" he added, leaning into the consonants, and Fell actually grimaced a little. "The Electric Slide?"

Oh, and there it was. Crowley had been joking, but Fell's whole body seemed to stiffen for a moment and there was a sharp intake of breath to go with it.

"It  _ is  _ the Electric Slide? Oh, how have you hidden this from me for two solid days? This should be the thing you introduce yourself with. 'I'm A.Z. Fell, and in my spare time, I tear up the dance floor with the Electric Slide.'"

"Yes, it's all very well, now. You've had your fun," Fell said, scrambling for his notebook. "I should really ask you about more of these rumors."

"In a minute," Crowley said, practically diving at the phone tucked away on a side table. He picked up the receiver, stabbing at the button for the DJ, and quickly made his song request.

"Crowley, honestly." Fell had his hand on his forehead, looking faint.

The music started up downstairs and Crowley leaned over to peek out the window, giggling when he saw the throngs of confused clubgoers wondering if they'd all been transported to 1977.

Crowley wanted to do the dance and see if he could get Fell to join him. The only problem with this otherwise brilliant plan was that Crowley didn't  _ know _ the Electric Slide, as such. For many, this would have been a real obstacle. It was nothing, however, to someone who had spent most of his adult life perfecting the art of being ridiculous.

He drew on his vast knowledge (none) of having seen and done the dance before (never) and started moving. There may have been a few odd choices made, but Crowley felt he was acquitting himself well, overall. He even simulated a lightning bolt coming from a cloud at one point, though the intricacies of that move might have been up for interpretation.

"Crowley," Fell sputtered, and he was genuinely— _ finally _ —laughing now. "You aren't even doing it properly."

"Doing it better than you," Crowley huffed, feeling winded already. "And if you know it so well, come over here and teach it to me." He put his arms out, drawing them back in toward himself as though he was pulling in a rope.

"Oh, I'm certain I'll regret this immediately." 

Crowley's heart pounded against his ribcage as Fell crossed the room to stand next to him, waiting for a particular beat before he began shuffling somewhat rhythmically to the right, and then to the left. When he changed direction again, Crowley got caught up on his own feet, laughing as Fell steadied him with a firm grip on his elbow and shoulder.

"Sorry, I'm usually a much quicker study than this," Crowley said, lying outrageously right to Fell's face, but none of that really mattered.

"Come along, let's start again," Fell said, letting him go and waiting for the right point in the music.

They made a little more progress with minimal missteps (Crowley's), and Fell was right there with a gentle hand on Crowley's lower back to nudge him in the right direction each time. 

"Come here to dance often?" Crowley tried, wondering if Fell would play along.

"Oh, yes," Fell said, looking a little breathless himself, and Crowley hoped it wasn't from the dancing. "Every evening you can find me right here, in this well-known establishment for the preservation of the Electric Slide," he added, dryly.

"I'm Anthony. What's  _ your  _ name?" he asked, raising his eyebrows while he waited for an answer.

"This really has to be your most creative attempt yet," Fell noted, and then nudged Crowley in the correct direction again when he'd gone astray. "You presuppose that I'm the type of person to exchange given names with all my dance partners, however."

Crowley's brain had creaked to a stop somewhere around the moment Fell had looked over at him and smirked, rendering him completely unable to navigate the next quarter turn properly. He went the wrong way, ending up face to face with Fell, who had, of course, gotten it right. They bumped into each other, and Crowley was just unsteady enough to teeter in place until Fell's strong hands caught him by the elbows and pulled him in.

"Angel," he said, looking directly into Fell's eyes. "Your name. It's got to be Angel, doesn't it?"

He didn't know which one of them began moving first, but the moment their lips met he had the insane thought that this was the first moment of his life that had felt truly  _ right _ . Fell's mouth was moving against his, and a shallow moan from deep within one of their throats was the only thing he could hear over the white noise rushing through his ears as his hands came up of their own accord and buried themselves into the bright white curls of Fell's hair.


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale melted against Crowley, overcome with a breath-stealing tingling in his scalp where Crowley's fingers had woven themselves into his hair. Their mouths moved together with an aching softness, Crowley's movements so slow and gentle as he began to take Aziraphale apart. 

Aziraphale's fingers twitched and grasped for purchase against Crowley's hips, earning him a sharp nip of his bottom lip between kisses as Aziraphale ran the flat of one hand upward to rest firmly at the small of Crowley's back.

"Oh, angel," Crowley moaned, breaking their kiss to lean his forehead against Aziraphale's and breathing heavily. The rise and fall of Crowley's shoulders, the round fullness of his eyes in their half-blurry closeness to Aziraphale's made his stomach tighten and his breath catch. "Is this all right? I didn't misread—"

"You didn't misread  _ anything _ , my dear," Aziraphale answered, pulling Crowley more firmly into his chest. "I hope you'll forgive me if I ask if this is merely a lark, a casual curiosity? Or is it—" 

"It isn't that. Surely you know by now that I'm not really—"

"I  _ know  _ you aren't," Aziraphale assured him, leaning forward into another kiss as giddy disbelief washed over him. It seemed more likely that he'd conjured this in an errant daydream, begun as an outline for a book whose plot was fueled by his own wishful thinking. "I simply would never have imagined you'd be interested in, well…me."

Crowley growled—almost a sound of frustration—before his mouth descended again. His hands came up to cup Aziraphale's cheeks, holding him in place as Crowley dismantled him, pausing only to whisper  _ angel  _ against his lips before beginning again.

Aziraphale allowed himself to sink into it, though his kiss-addled mind dimly registered every detail of what Crowley's fingers felt like curling around his face, each fingertip gently pressing into his skin and making him feel wanted in a way he'd never experienced before. Aziraphale's own fingers twisted in the silky fabric of Crowley's shirt where it stretched over the small of his back, tracing over the bumps of his spine.

Crowley gasped, breaking the kiss to let his lips seek out the sensitive skin just behind Aziraphale's ear. With the way he was leaning heavily forward against Aziraphale's chest, it was as though Crowley was grounded to the Earth only through his connection to Aziraphale, who had never felt so wanted, so  _ necessary _ , before. 

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale whispered, and clutched Crowley even closer to him when his hands trembled against Aziraphale's face. "I'm afraid I'm getting quite carried away."

Crowley stopped moving, freezing in place where he was nestled under Aziraphale's chin, and Aziraphale could feel him struggling to get his breath under control. When he straightened, there was fear in his eyes for just a moment before it shuttered itself away, and they broke apart.

"I'm sorry. It's my fault, it's all my—"

"No," Aziraphale told him, reaching forward to take his hand, and he pulled it up to press the back of it against his lips. It was just to ground him, just for reassurance, but the feel of Crowley against him again was nearly enough to persuade Aziraphale to set aside his concerns and just…fall. Had his reservations right now merely been for himself, he might have, but he owed Crowley better than that.

"It's fine, I know. I know I pushed this, you probably didn't even want to come here. It's too much, I'm always too much, even when I think—"

"Crowley." Aziraphale whispered his name, just to stop him. Crowley was so quick to assume blame, to play the villain or the rogue. Aziraphale had to stop him, explain, and hope he would understand. "We  _ are  _ moving too quickly, but that's because of me. There are things I need to tell you...well, before  _ anything _ else." He let Crowley's hand go, keenly feeling the loss of their connection, but he didn't want to make Crowley tear himself away if he found himself horrified at what Aziraphale needed to confess.

"If anything, angel, I'm the one who should be explaining myself to you. I know we've talked about it, but none of the stories you've read about me, or—Christ—the way I've treated you like you were an afterthought, this isn't really—"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale raised his voice and it echoed painfully in the sparse corners of the room. "I need to tell you something which could very well cause you to hate me or never trust me again, and I need to do it before I lose my nerve. Please."

Crowley's shoulders finally relaxed, his jaw falling softly open as he blinked at Aziraphale. 

"What could you possibly have—"

"I've been approached by the National Crime Agency. One of their agents is working undercover in your building and received my contact information when I used my identification to sign in. They're…" Aziraphale faltered here, uncertain how Crowley would react. "They're investigating your family, and they're attempting to ascertain if they're correct that you're not involved with their…dealings. I was the best opportunity they've found to try to make contact with you."

Crowley looked poleaxed.

"You didn't...please tell me this," Crowley said, gesturing wildly between them, "isn't just a way for you to get closer to me."

"No, Crowley. Absolutely not." He held Crowley's gaze, unwavering.

"Why? Why would you do this?" Crowley's eyes were wild now, panicked, as they quickly darted around Aziraphale's face. Aziraphale felt sick, knowing all his guilty feelings—at practically spying on Crowley, at not recognizing from the start that he had nothing to do with any sort of criminal activity—had to be plain on his face. He'd never been good at hiding his emotions, and he felt as stripped bare now as he'd ever been in his life.

"I'm so sorry, Crowley. I should have known you weren't involved in any—"

"No." Crowley's lips thinned, pressed tightly together as he let a pair of sharp, frustrated puffs of air out his nose. "How could you  _ possibly have known _ I'm not tied up in what the rest of my family does? What if you'd told me this and I'd had you killed? How could you risk your  _ safety _ like this?"

"Of  _ course  _ I know, Crowley."

"Who's this idiot policeman coming to you  _ where you live  _ and putting you in danger like this? What sort of amateur—"

"He's an undercover NCA agent, and he seems very well assured of the secrecy of his position. His visit to me shouldn't have given anything away."

"He shouldn't have risked it," Crowley growled, his body finally loosening enough to take a few agitated paces back and forth. "Shouldn't have risked you. Not for me and my bloody family."

"Can you possibly forgive me?"

It had been difficult to choke out the words, to put it so plainly. No ambiguity, no stalling, and Aziraphale's heart was racing.

"For allowing yourself to be put in danger on my account? I suppose I'll have to, angel, as you've already done it. Whoever this agent is, I'm not sure he'll be as lucky."

"No, Crowley. For lying to you, or at least, for not telling you right away."

Crowley goggled at him, slow blinks and mouth wide open in shock.

"If I'd been  _ anyone  _ else in my family and you'd told me this, you'd have disappeared by now. How could I possibly be angry with you, except for the leap of faith you just made that I'm not like every other Crowley?"

A stretch of silence passed between them as Aziraphale attempted to adjust his earlier expectations for this conversation to the reality of it. He'd assumed that Crowley would be angry, but that his anger would be solely Aziraphale's  _ behalf  _ hadn't ever occurred to him. When the facts finished sorting themselves neatly into Aziraphale's thoughts, he took a deep, relieved breath and knew it was time to pour out the confused, hopeful contents of his heart and pray Crowley would know it was the truth.

"I saw exactly who you are, Crowley, no matter how hard you tried to convince me otherwise."

Crowley gaped at him, hands nervous and everywhere as Aziraphale waited, wondering if he'd gone too far. They still had so much to learn about one another, and it was entirely possible that Crowley would balk at what he'd just said. Aziraphale wasn't sure he should believe it, himself.

"I need to sit down," Crowley said, the words sounding like static through Crowley's roughened voice. Aziraphale gestured to the leather sofa, but Crowley just looked back, shoulders slumped as he blinked slowly. "I think I'd like you to sit with me," he added, and still didn't move. He hadn't phrased it as a question, but the uncertainty on Crowley's face made it one.

It took a moment for Aziraphale to act, but once the request sank in, he hurried to the sofa and sat at one end, leaving plenty of room for Crowley at the other side. Crowley sat just a little closer than necessary, making Aziraphale bow his head and smile at how perfect it was—he'd settled in just far enough away to not be overwhelming, but still close enough to make it clear that Aziraphale was important to him. This small thoughtfulness, something that Crowley would likely brush off if Aziraphale pointed it out, made him feel even more wanted than the kissing had.

"I hate myself for saying this, but you should probably fob me off on one of your co-workers and then take off running. Don't look back, either."

"Don't be ridiculous, Crowley. I'll do no such thing." Aziraphale braced himself, and then leaned over and took Crowley's hand in his, clasping it firmly. 

"Because you have to finish this book or you'll be sacked?"

"No, of  _ course  _ that isn't why, you daft—how do you even know that? I didn't tell you—"

"When I held your notebook earlier, you had a note to yourself written at the top of one of the pages. Something like, 'Stay focused and finish the book, or that's the end.'" Crowley's leg began to jiggle restlessly. "Sorry I read that, by the way. I thought it was all just notes about me and it wouldn't matter if I read it."

"It doesn't matter that you read it. It  _ is  _ all about you, even the notes to myself." He smiled again. "Perhaps  _ especially  _ the notes to myself."

"I…" Crowley's mouth moved after that, but nothing came out. "You are aware that I'm a complete idiot, aren't you?"

"You aren't." He paused, watching something like wonder dawn over Crowley's face, and he wanted a bit of that sort of relief for himself. "And for my part, you must surely know I'm an uptight, priggish fop?"

"You aren't," Crowley drawled, finally relaxing just a bit. "You know, I'll feel like you're really being yourself around me when I finally know your name," he added, grinning widely.

"Oh," Aziraphale sighed, finally  _ wanting  _ to tell someone, even if he'd have to watch him grimace at the oddness of it. "I'm tempted to make you promise you won't make fun."

"If you tell me?" Crowley thought for a moment. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but you shouldn't if you're really that anxious about it."

"You'll miss guessing, won't you?"

"Well," Crowley said, drawing the word out, "it has been a fun diversion."

"Oh, in that case, by all means I'll hold off—"

"Kidding, angel. I'm kidding. You know I'm dying to know."

"It's…" Aziraphale took him in for a moment, memorizing the lines of his face, the pronounced curves of his cheekbones, the rounded jut of his chin. "It's Aziraphale."

Aziraphale watched the syllables form soundlessly on Crowley's lips. 

"A.Z. Fell," he said, finally. "Aziraphale." He laughed. "You utter bastard. You hid the damn thing in plain sight."

"You have to admit," Aziraphale said lightly, part of him still waiting for the teasing to begin, "I was correct when I said you'd never guess it. Now, if you'd like to take some time to make fun of it properly, I can sit quietly and wait for you to be done."

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, addressing him with it for the first time. Even though Aziraphale was still braced for the japes to begin, the sound of Crowley's voice wrapping around his name tugged almost painfully at his heart. "It's your  _ name _ . It suits you. There isn't a thing wrong with it."

He looked at Crowley the way he deserved to be looked at, as though he'd hung the stars, and wondered why he'd ever worried about this at all.

"I'd like to use it sometimes, if we're somewhere no one else will hear it." Crowley sidled closer, until their legs were flush against each other. "I hope you won't interpret it as me not liking your name, but I'd also like to still call you angel, if you wouldn't mind."

"Oh.  _ Crowley. _ " Because what else could possibly encompass the deep meaning and affection welling up inside him, except Crowley's name?

Aziraphale turned to him and reached out, brushing his trembling finger along the line of Crowley's brow, continuing past his hairline until his palm was cupping the back of Crowley's head. Weight pushed into his hand as Crowley arched into him, and Aziraphale would be a fool not to recognize an opportunity when one presented itself.

He leaned forward, tasting Crowley's neck and inhaling deeply to take in the scent of his cologne, something like rich cedar and honey. His mouth found the prominent curve of Crowley's Adam's apple, then nuzzled further back to settle in the dip where Crowley's neck flowed into his shoulder.

"Aziraphale," Crowley whispered, the syllables still uncertain as he navigated through them. "Angel."

Crowley shifted restlessly, clasping the back of Aziraphale's head with both hands, until he growled and shifted his weight, swinging one leg over Aziraphale's thighs to straddle him.

"This is fast, I know," Crowley moaned, while Aziraphale took advantage of the new angle to keep exploring Crowley's neck. "Should I—"

"Not yet." Aziraphale paused to breathe deeply a few times, puffing the air over Crowley's skin and relishing when he shivered. "I'm certain it's too much, but I wouldn't like to stop, not yet."

Crowley threw his head back, leaning far enough away that Aziraphale braced his hands on the small of Crowley's back to keep him from falling, then moved to taste the defined, corded muscle at the top of Crowley's shoulder. 

"Holy fuck," Crowley gasped. "Aziraphale." His hips ground down and Aziraphale couldn't stop his teeth from closing down in a firm bite, pulling another moan and twist of the hips from Crowley. Aziraphale's head went fuzzy and light, his fingers squeezing around handfuls of Crowley's arse as he continued to move. "Fucking hell, angel."

"Not hell," Aziraphale whispered against Crowley's skin. "Heaven, Crowley. This has to be heaven." Aziraphale said the words but privately thought this was much better than heaven. This was the real world, and Crowley wanted him. He would never have dared to hope.

"You're absolutely bloody fantastic," Crowley said, grinding into Aziraphale one more time, and that was the moment it became too much. Crowley under his hands, the friction between them, the million ways he wanted Crowley tumbling through his thoughts. Aziraphale knew that if he didn't stop now, he wouldn't, unless Crowley asked to.

"We should stop." Aziraphale forced the words out between gasps, kissing along Crowley's neck all the while.

Crowley stilled immediately, pulling back to share a long look with Aziraphale.

"I really shouldn't have," he said, leaning back to look pointedly at the way he was straddling Aziraphale's lap.

"No, I've enjoyed this very much," Aziraphale told him. "Very soon, in fact, I might have…enjoyed it…rather a lot more."

Crowley laughed at this, his face lighting up with it as he shifted to the side, wiggling to get comfortable on his own again. They were still so close to each other but it seemed like leagues. Oceans separated them now that he'd had a taste of what it felt like to have Crowley in his arms.

"That certainly shouldn't happen here," Crowley noted wryly.

"Oh, I don't know," Aziraphale answered, letting himself sound thoughtful.

"No, angel. You deserve better than a sordid tumble in a club."

"Crowley…" Aziraphale felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Crowley was really so soft and lovely under all the sharp angles.

"C'mon, angel." Crowley stood up, holding out a hand. "I'll see you home."


	8. Braving the Paparazzi

As they made their way from the elevator at the back of the club to the exit, Crowley registered the excited whispers around him about some minor celebrity having made an appearance at the club. He caught a glimpse of the broad-shouldered and square-jawed prat as he sliced through the crowd, though it took until the club employee was just about to push the doors open for them to realize this would mean scads of paparazzi would be haunting the streets.

Aziraphale had been holding his hand ever since they'd stood up together from the sofa in the VIP room, which made it easy to wave off the employee and pull Aziraphale off to the side before they left.

"Don't know if you noticed, angel, there's a celebrity here."

"Well, of course you are," Aziraphale answered, sighing dramatically as though Crowley was having some sort of egocentric tantrum.

"Not me, you walnut." Crowley squeezed his hand, and Aziraphale laughed a little, squeezing back. "An actual, proper celebrity. He's over there, the wanker with the entourage by the bar."

"Did you…" Aziraphale said, and Crowley was practically reading his lips for how difficult it was to hear anything where they were, "...want to speak to him?" He looked remarkably puzzled and just a little put out, and Crowley wanted to kiss the expression clean off his face.

"Where celebrities and entourages go, the bottom-feeders of journalism follow." He gestured to the door. "There'll be photographers out there. Now, they're here for him," he continued, pointing to the actor currently doing shots of tequila with five very scantily dressed women and two tight-trousered men, "but that won't stop them from blinding us with flash bulbs and expecting me to do something scandalous and idiotic."

Aziraphale's brow wrinkled, and Crowley prayed he wasn't rethinking the whole 'get involved with a professional buffoon' idea.

"Listen, it's not far to get to where I left the car," he said, the plan formulating in his mind barely an instant before it came barrelling out of his mouth. "You can take my jacket," he added, stripping it off and shoving it toward Aziraphale, who grabbed it reflexively and then stood there blinking at it. "Wrap it around you, and I'll guide you through the whole mess."

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, still looking down at the jacket as though it was what he was speaking to, and  _ Christ _ , that worried wrinkle in his forehead had made a reappearance. "Please tell me the truth." He looked up, his face open and eyes wide with sadness. "Would you be ashamed to be photographed with me?"

"No!" Crowley answered loudly enough to make most of the people huddled near the entrance turn to stare at them. Crowley merely returned the stare and hissed out a breath with his teeth bared, annoyed to find himself with an audience already. "It isn't that, don't be daft. I just fucking...come here, angel," he growled, pulling Aziraphale close to him so they could hear each other without shouting.

"It's fine, really, Crowley. I'd understand if you would—"

"I wouldn't," Crowley said, cutting him off while he clutched Aziraphale more closely to him. "I'd consider myself lucky if they thought you would have anything to do—" He cut himself off there, before he said something embarrassingly sentimental and got teary eyed like a prat. Then he took a deep breath, shutting his eyes before pushing the air out his nose, trying to gather up what little courage he possessed. "They're awful. They peck at you and shout out the worst possible things trying to get a reaction that'll make their photo worth more. I've probably put a few of their kids through college with my rude hand gestures alone." He looked into Aziraphale's eyes, putting all the meaning he could into his own. "They shouldn't get to do that to you. I want to protect you from it, angel. That's all."

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, his eyes softening, but he handed Crowley's jacket back all the same. "That's really very sweet."

"Yeah, well," Crowley growled as he shouldered back into it, "don't let it get around."

"Ah." Aziraphale had a little grin on his face. "I suppose we can't have that. We wouldn't want to ruin your delightfully scandalous reputation…" He trailed off, looking thoughtful. "You know, I really hadn't considered…"

"Hadn't considered?"

"Later, my dear. I need to think on it."

Aziraphale began walking toward the exit and Crowley fought to tamp down on how wildly attractive Aziraphale was when he was floating along, no fucks to be found about the paparazzi waiting outside the door. 

The moment they were outside, Crowley was glad he had his glasses on. Flashbulbs popped all around them, abating for just a moment and then renewing, the bright sound of shutters clicking closed accompanying the blinding lights. He looked to Aziraphale, who was shading his eyes with his free hand, the other still holding Crowley's tightly.

"Done partying with Simon in there?" one of the paparazzi shouted, and Crowley glared at him from behind his shades.

"Is that the name of the infant in there with the entourage? Don't know him, I'm afraid. Doesn't look like he's leaving anytime soon, though, so all of you may as well piss off." Crowley smiled insincerely at them.

"Who's your friend?" asked another one from behind a camera with a comically massive lens on it. "You preying on schoolteachers now, Crowley?"

Crowley was about to snarl something about where they could all go to bugger themselves when, to his shock, Aziraphale beat him to it.

"You aren't nearly as bright as that beastly flash you're blinding me with, are you?"

Crowley's mouth dropped open. Aziraphale sounded ready to dismantle someone.

"Have you not considered that a 'schoolteacher' may be preying on  _ him _ ?" Aziraphale continued, dropping the hand that was shielding his eyes and refusing to blink. "Or that your questionable talents as photographers should be put to better use doing  _ anything  _ else? Do you know I've yet to see a single image on the gossip pages—which I've unfortunately spent quite a lot of time lately having to peruse—that's been worth the ink it took to print it?"

"Your English teacher's got a mouth on him, Crowley," another of the paparazzi called out, grinning as he held down the shutter and captured a long stream of images, rapid-fire. 

"Right, bugger off out of the way or I'll never make rude gestures at any of you again." Crowley set off directly toward the most weaselly-looking one of the lot, Aziraphale right at his side, and a hole cleared for them just before the collision would have happened.

And in one last attempt to give them a more interesting shot and keep Aziraphale's face out of the gossip rags, Crowley threw them the ol' two-fingered salute over his shoulder, but he knew better. It wouldn't be enough.

"Well, how very annoying those horrid people are," Aziraphale said, as soon as they were settled into the car. "I see now why you usually look so cross in those photos."

"I don't look cross, angel," Crowley said, suppressing a smile as he threw the car into gear and tore off into the night. "I look cool and detached."

"Yes, of course. My mistake." Aziraphale sounded amused, so the ensuing silence didn't worry Crowley—not until he caught the nervous movements of Aziraphale worrying at the notebook in his lap.

Crowley  _ wanted _ to ask what was wrong, but that little voice in the back of his head was gleefully informing him that Aziraphale was probably realizing he'd snogged a complete idiot, a total plonker he was stuck with until they finished the book, or he'd lose his job. That was before you took into account that law enforcement was now somehow involved in this mess. Crowley wondered if—even once in his entire bloody life—he'd be able to go on a simple, uncomplicated date. Preferably with Aziraphale.

( _ Definitely  _ with Aziraphale.)

That was the problem, wasn't it? If Aziraphale was having second thoughts, it would never happen. And though he was a bit of a coward, Crowley was also a pragmatist. If Aziraphale had regrets, better to find out now. Ferret it out before Crowley's imagination ran away with him, before it started  _ planning things. _

"You know, if you're…regretting…something, you wouldn't be the first to realize that a snogging session in a dark club may have seemed like a good idea at the time but doesn't necessarily mean anything in the light of day." Crowley looked forward, trying not to let the anxiety show on his face. "Dark of night, in this case, I s'pose."

Aziraphale's hands stopped moving immediately. 

"Do  _ you… _ ?" Aziraphale began, visibly swallowing when Crowley stole a look at him. "I should say, are you finding that—"

"No!" Crowley interrupted, turning the wheel too harshly and jostling them both in their seats. 

"So you won't be driving me home tonight and show up tomorrow at mine with a changed mind?" Aziraphale phrased it as a joke, but the way he was staring at his lap and twisting his fingers together again belied the forced lightness in his tone. 

Crowley wondered exactly how many roses he could reasonably contrive to have delivered to Aziraphale as soon as possible, and if they would be enough to convince him that Crowley was in this until they figured it out together. They hadn't known each other very long, and Crowley knew it was entirely possible that they might drive each other insane, but he'd never wanted anything to work this much before in his entire forsaken life.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale said, breaking the silence, his voice thinner and even more unsure.

"I'm not going to change my mind, angel." Crowley was grateful he was driving and that it was dark, where it was easier to make himself say what he actually meant.

"We really do need to stop doubting each other," Aziraphale said, and that was enough for Crowley to relax for approximately six seconds before his bastard brain started yapping at him about all his new worries for Aziraphale.

"How sure are you that this policeman—"

"—Agent Young, of the NCA," Aziraphale supplied.

"Right, that's what I said," Crowley said, barrelling through to keep Aziraphale from distracting him with that prim sort of attention to detail that Crowley unfortunately found incredibly sexy. "How sure are you that he hasn't blown his cover? That my mother doesn't already have reason to believe you might be working with them?"

"Well," Aziraphale began, but then stopped. Crowley didn't  _ at all  _ like the uncertainty in his voice.

"I think I should stay at yours. Tonight, maybe longer if we can't figure this thing out."

"Crowley, if you wanted an invitation in for the evening, you don't need to contrive—"

"I'm not, angel. Not going to get a moment's sleep at mine, worried about what'll happen to you if my mother sends my 'Uncle' Hastur 'round to you for a chat."

Aziraphale gasped—a tiny, affronted noise—and Crowley knew then that none of this had ever occurred to Aziraphale. He'd been living a normal life last week and in the space of a few days, he was tangled up with the NCA and organized crime, foulness that should never have touched him, and it was all Crowley's fault.

"What exactly are you planning if I  _ do  _ receive such a visit?"

As much as Crowley knew Aziraphale was right—he had  _ no  _ strategy for confronting anyone from his family if they got wind of this NCA investigation—he wasn't about to give up that easily.

"It isn't ideal, all right?" Crowley allowed that much with minimal grumbling. "But you'd be better off than if you were on your own."

" _ Crowley, _ " Aziraphale said, his voice breathy, and Crowley had to force himself to concentrate on the road instead of careening onto the pavement.

"You'd be safer at mine, but…"

"But?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley was seriously considering just pulling over, especially if Aziraphale was going to unleash a voice sounding like  _ that  _ in Crowley's direction.

"Didn't want you to think I was making it up, just trying to get you into my…" Crowley paused, unable to decide what ending of that sentence wouldn't make him sound like a prat. Fuck it all, had he  _ really  _ been about to say  _ lair _ ? "I'm also betting your sofa's more comfortable than mine."

"I see," Aziraphale said, carefully. "And who is sleeping on the couch, in these scenarios?"

"Well, I'm not making you do it." It came out testier than Crowley'd intended it, and he could feel his mouth twitching at the corner, restless.

"I've no objection to sharing either bed with you, Crowley." Aziraphale was speaking so quietly that Crowley wanted to ask him to repeat himself just to be sure he'd heard it all correctly, but he knew it had to have been difficult for Aziraphale to say. "It doesn't need to lead to anything, if you don't want it to."

"Yeah," Crowley said, too quickly, cursing himself. "I mean, same for you. Doesn't need to lead to anything." Right, that's great, Crowley…real fucking smooth. Repeating everything Aziraphale says like you're a demented parrot is really attractive, isn't it?

"And you feel we'll be safer at yours?" 

"Security's tighter, at least, but we'd still have the same old problem tomorrow—nowhere for you to write."

"So," Aziraphale said, so slowly and carefully still, as though he was negotiating with a ticking bomb, "the evening at yours. The day—we'll worry about tomorrow. We'll just carry on."

"Until you're sick at the sight of me."

"Or you, of me." 

There was the softest smile on Aziraphale's face when Crowley took a peek, and all he wanted to do was kiss it until he understood every last curve of it.

He drove the car, instead, changing directions to take Aziraphale back to Mayfair with him instead of going to Soho.

* * *

Crowley was approaching manic by the time he'd escorted Aziraphale inside with him, something he was hoping he'd been able to hide. It was possible Aziraphale hadn't noticed the slight shaking of his hands, but they'd both fallen so quiet that Crowley figured it must have been hard to miss.

"Want something to unwind?" Crowley offered, stalking toward the bar cart in the corner of the main room of his flat. "I've got wine, scotch," he said, swallowing hard when he heard Aziraphale coming closer. "Whiskey?"

"I won't stop you," Aziraphale said, alarmingly close to him now, "but I think I shall keep a clear head."

"Right, yeah." Crowley twisted around, nearly dropping the tumbler he'd been gripping in his nervous fingers. Aziraphale calmly took it from him, their hands glancing together for a moment before the glass was back on the bar. He'd been so much closer to Aziraphale earlier, straddling his lap and grinding into him, but somehow this one innocent brush of skin against skin was quietly destroying him.

"My dear, are you all right?" Aziraphale's brow was pinched with worry, his eyes almost mournful beneath. "Perhaps this wasn't a good idea."

"No, I'm being an idiot," Crowley confessed, the words he'd been thinking spilling out of him easily. "We need to make sure you'll be safe until we figure all of this out." His breath caught in his too-dry throat. "It's down to me that you're involved in this, you know. Making room for you here, it's the least I can do." He swallowed again. "And it isn't exactly a hardship."

"It isn't?" Aziraphale sounded more breathless than when they'd been snogging each other senseless earlier.

"No," Crowley admitted. "I like seeing you here. The contrast."

"Contrast?"

"It's like you're the first real thing that's ever been here," Crowley said, unable to stop himself though he could feel the heat of his blush all over him. 

Aziraphale looked down at himself then back at Crowley, disbelieving. He gestured at his clothes, pulled at the edge of his own uneven bow tie.

"I don't really fit though, do I?"

"If you don't, then I'll bin anything that makes you feel that way. Is it the cappuccino maker?" Crowley glared at it from across the room. "It's always been a judgmental bastard. I've never even used it, angel. Too complicated when I can get a decent enough coffee in any corner shop." He looked around, taking in more of the trappings of his life. "It's all smoke and mirrors, you know? Stylish camouflage."

"I'm not sure you truly believe that," Aziraphale observed, his voice lowering, and he took a step closer. "This is all quite lovely. My flat is cluttered and chaotic, where yours is sleek and modern."

"It's a joke.  _ I'm  _ a joke. This is all…" Crowley gestured around himself, "…ridiculousness."

"It isn't, and you aren't. You're quick, and smart. You have friends you'd do anything for, and they'd do anything for you. I can see it in their eyes when they talk to me about you."

"Your book is going to flop if you put all of that into it," Crowley said, trying to make light, to minimize. He wanted to make himself smaller until he disappeared, because as much as the things Aziraphale was saying made his heart race, they also hurt a little. Like looking into the sun. He wanted to turn away from it. Hide.

"I wish I could write the book you truly deserve," Aziraphale said, with the air of someone who'd said something out loud that they'd been holding back for too long. "I'll do what must be done, especially if it's to keep you safe, but you have no idea how I ache to do you justice."

"Could I kiss you again?" Crowley said, pressing the words tightly together. He tried to tell himself that it was just to keep Aziraphale from saying more nice things about him, but honestly, he'd wanted to kiss him again from the moment the door to his flat shut behind them.

"I—well, yes," Aziraphale stammered, his lashes fluttering as his gaze fell to Crowley's mouth. Crowley bit his lip reflexively and that was when Aziraphale surged forward.

Given the abruptness of Aziraphale's movements Crowley thought they would crash together, but there were hands on Crowley's cheeks just before their lips touched and then everything was soft and so perfect that Crowley could feel his eyes rolling back behind their closed lids.

Crowley perhaps should have had that drink after all, because having Aziraphale kiss him (and there was no mistaking it—Crowley was  _ being kissed _ , so lost in it with Aziraphale a fraction ahead of him at every turn that all he could do was hold on and try desperately to keep up) without any dulling of his senses was too much in the best possible way. He was hyper-aware of every distinct part of himself, from the mundanity of his left index finger twitching as he fisted his hands in the fabric of Aziraphale's clothes to the white-hot tension building in—well, areas more relevant to the proceedings. 

He whined—and humiliatingly, there was no other word for it—as Aziraphale's lips moved away from his to drift along his jawline, then nestle against his neck.

"You're utterly beautiful," Aziraphale whispered into his skin. "Do you think that's an odd thing for me to say?" He began to suck a mark into the juncture where Crowley's neck met his shoulder, and Crowley keened. "You're handsome, of course, and so many other things. But beautiful, yes. The lines of you," Aziraphale said, trailing one finger along the path his mouth had traveled, and Crowley shivered. "You don't mind, do you? If I call you that?"

Crowley was trying to answer, he really was, but Aziraphale was making it all but impossible. He managed to shake his head, but the movement made him feel even more restless. Energy was building up in his twitching muscles but he was afraid moving would break the spell Aziraphale had cast between them. Eventually, as Aziraphale's mouth began to push the material of Crowley's collar aside, it was too much. Crowley threw back his shoulders and let his jacket fall to the floor, and then his trembling fingers undid a few buttons along the front of his ridiculous, skin-tight shirt to give Aziraphale more room.

"Delicious," Aziraphale said, lifting up his head for just a moment before continuing to kiss along the line of Crowley's collarbone. It reminded Crowley, ridiculously, of the crepes they'd eaten earlier, though it seemed like it had been days ago—weeks ago. Everything between them was happening on fast-forward, but Crowley didn't care. He just wanted more, to fall backward into everything Aziraphale was offering and know he'd be well taken care of. 

He floated there, lost in sensation, until his ever-present anxiety found a way to return. Aziraphale  _ seemed  _ to be happy doing what he was doing, but what if he was waiting for more? For Crowley to take charge, or be more of what the gossip columns made him out to be? What if all of this turned out to be a huge disappointment for Aziraphale?

If he could just get his voice to work, he knew he should come clean. Lay it all out on the table and confess that his rumored 'experience' was as much of a sham as the rest of him.

"Ah—Azira—angel," he stammered, trying to make his mouth move properly. He was so angry at himself, going to pieces like this over a little kissing, and it was that ire which finally helped him focus. "I'm not," he began, but stopped when Aziraphale pulled away so quickly that Crowley's body crumpled in toward him, seeking out what had been withdrawn.

"I'm so sorry," Aziraphale said, looking suddenly pale. "I got carried away. I should have checked in with you—"

"No! I liked it," Crowley admitted, looking down at the floor. "I wanted it. Want it," he corrected. "Just—there's something I should tell you."

"If it's making you this worried," Aziraphale said, brushing a hand down Crowley's cheek, "then please do. But I can't imagine anything you could say that would make me feel differently."

"Everything about me in the papers is a lie," Crowley said, blinking down at Aziraphale worriedly.

"I," Aziraphale said, frowning, "I thought we'd already established—"

" _ Everything _ ," Crowley stressed, and he could see the moment the penny dropped.

"What you're telling me, my dear," Aziraphale said, taking one of Crowley's hands and tracing his thumb in circles on Crowley's palm, nearly causing his knees to buckle, "is that your legendary bedroom exploits…are fictional."

"Some," he said, and it came out more defensive than he'd meant. "Most," he admitted, dropping the affronted pretense. "A few of my 'affairs' were favors from friends, when my mother demanded to see me in the society pages with someone on my arm. Few of 'em were people who wanted to take the heat off their real relationship, so I found ways for us to draw the attention of the paparazzi and put them off the scent."

"Is that what you did for Anathema?" Aziraphale's finger never stopped moving, making answering difficult, but Crowley pushed on.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Anathema dates men  _ and  _ women, but her family didn't know that until recently. We used to put on that we'd taken up with each other again whenever she was dating a woman. I'd make the usual arse of myself with her for the photographers, and it gave her cover."

" _ Crowley _ ." Aziraphale was looking at him as though this was something remarkable, like he'd cured cancer or done  _ anything  _ that any idiot with the right (or wrong) reputation couldn't have done. "You are the  _ kindest _ , most generous—"

"Please don't," Crowley interrupted, knowing he wouldn't be able to take whatever Aziraphale was about to say without melting into a puddle, never to coalesce back into human form again. He was overheating, sweating into his clothes in an incredibly unattractive manner. He could feel the fabric starting to stick to him.

"I'm not expecting you—nor do I want you—to be anyone other than who you are," Aziraphale whispered, between kisses that danced around his Adam's apple. 

"Please stop saying things like that." Aziraphale froze against him, not pulling back entirely, but the kissing stopped immediately.

"Apologies, my dear. I keep losing track of myself. I have no intention of saying or doing anything you don't like, of course."

"I like it, angel. I like it  _ too much _ ," Crowley growled, his anxiety turning to impatience. It was a different sort of tension, energy sparking, about to turn kinetic. 

He had a sudden awareness of exactly where they were, that Aziraphale had been nudging him closer and closer toward the wall that led to his bedroom. He took Aziraphale by the shoulders and reversed them, backing him into the wall and bracketing his own body around him to hold him there. It was a near thing, but he'd managed to get one hand behind Aziraphale's head, twining his fingers into that cloud of fluffy hair and shielding him from the impact.

"Oh," was all Aziraphale could manage, his breath coming out of him in a whoosh, buffeting Crowley's face. His eyes were wide, but he didn't look displeased. 

Crowley ducked down to kiss him, moving slowly so Aziraphale had plenty of time and space to shove him away if he wanted to, but instead he wound his arms around Crowley's back to clutch at him, his hips bucking forward as Crowley sank into the kiss. 

He could fool himself at first, as the kisses got deeper and he pushed Aziraphale more firmly into the wall, that he was now in charge of things. Aziraphale destroyed any notion of that the moment his hand left Crowley's back and snaked between them to cup Crowley's chin, holding him in place for Aziraphale to press his tongue into the seam of Crowley's lips. Crowley opened them on a sigh, and then somehow, Aziraphale began to thoroughly dismantle him despite being pinned against the wall.

His head was fuzzy and he felt vaguely faint by the time Aziraphale's hand tangled in the longer strands of Crowley’s hair, pulling back firmly to expose his neck.

"My dear," Aziraphale whispered. "As enchanting as I find our current configuration, I'd love to be shown to your bedroom."

Crowley gulped and must have waited a beat too long to take a breath and begin to answer, as Aziraphale's face softened and the fingers in Crowley's hair loosened.

"I'm happy to do as much or as little as you'd like once we're there, Crowley. I merely felt we would be more comfortable there."

"Your hand," he rasped. "Put it back the way it was." While Aziraphale merely stared at him, brow wrinkling, Crowley took a deep breath and realized he was absolutely not above begging, and uttered a quiet "please" into the space between them.

Aziraphale's breath was sharp, his eyes widening, dilating, as his fingers tightened again.

"This is good?" Aziraphale said, his fingers curling deeper, pulling just that tiny measure more and putting the perfect amount of pressure on Crowley's scalp. Crowley nodded, his eyes fluttering when the movement made the tingling spike.

They should have talked, Crowley mused, his thoughts floating pleasantly through his mind as Aziraphale's mouth tasted the hollow behind his ear. Things like this could go wrong so easily, lines misunderstood, and it was all so difficult to put into words once they'd set each other adrift from reason.

"You're so lovely like this," Aziraphale told him, the hand in his hair relaxing an almost imperceptible amount as Aziraphale's other hand came up to cup his cheek. "Do you like hearing that? How you captivate me?"

Some remnant of Crowley's pride wanted him to step back, protect this underbelly-soft part of himself and retreat to something less revealing. He  _ wanted  _ so badly, though, and the warm, soft angel of a man against him had been so careful with him. He'd come in, collecting all of the most ridiculous bits of Crowley in that blasted notebook of his and had somehow drawn out the truth hidden beneath. (Hidden so well that Crowley's heart raced, a cold sweat prickling at his skin at the idea that it wasn't true, that he couldn't ever measure up.)

"What can I do for you?" Aziraphale's voice buzzed into Crowley's collarbone, the question hanging between them for a long moment while Crowley wondered what Aziraphale hoped to hear, if there was something Crowley could be for him.

"I—" he began, but was too unsure to go any further than that.

"I'm yours, Crowley."

And Crowley, one of the more infamously hedonistic lotharios of London's high society for the past decade or more, came to the—surprisingly welcome—conclusion that he merely wanted to take Aziraphale to his bed, find out how they fit together, and do anything that pulled another of those shared moans from both of their throats.

He looked at Aziraphale and wanted to say all manner of embarrassing, needy things.

_ Can't you see, angel, that I was drowning and you were the hand that reached below the surface and pulled me out? I was stranded, and you were the salvation of a boat appearing on the horizon, headed in to bring me back to civilization? _

"That's all I want," he said, taking a shaky breath and then continuing on before he lost his nerve. "You. With me."

"I've never felt—" Aziraphale began, but he'd stopped himself. It seemed the words had spilled out of him too quickly, pulled back too soon.

"I haven't either," Crowley told him, feeling the ground solidify under his feet. He drew back, reaching up to clasp the hand that had twined itself into Crowley's hair, and led them down the hall to his bedroom.


	9. After the Club

Aziraphale was attempting to manage his expectations, he truly was. Crowley could be rather inscrutable at times and Aziraphale would hate to read something the wrong way, push too hard or too fast, casting a shadow over what had otherwise been one of the most wonderful evenings of his life thus far.

This was all well and good, but when Crowley—usually all angles and sharp edges—melted against Aziraphale's chest each time they kissed, it was difficult to keep himself from getting carried away.

They were going to Crowley's bedroom, those hips swaying sinfully in Crowley's skin-tight trousers and leading the way. Though Aziraphale had savored every moment of their newfound intimacy, it would almost certainly be better to slow down and spend the night simply relishing the feel of being close to one another.

Aziraphale resolved to suggest they get ready for sleep as soon as they were properly in Crowley's bedroom, take a few moments apart while they changed their clothes and lie down after that together with sanity restored. It had been a whirlwind day, a tornado that barrelled straight through to jumble them together. A good night's sleep would put them in good stead to have a sober, clear-headed conversation the next morning where they could sort out their feelings for each other.

The words died on his tongue the moment Crowley strode into the bedroom ahead of him and then turned to face Aziraphale, a flicker of vulnerability twitching at the corner of his mouth, uncertainty in his eyes. 

"Angel, are you sure that you want anything like this from me? You'd be so much safer if you turned and ran—"

"Crowley, my dear, please stop," Aziraphale told him, and he'd somehow crossed the distance between them before he'd realized what he was doing. Crowley was a few inches taller, but Aziraphale tucked him into his arms and nestled his chin over Crowley's head, and they somehow still fit together perfectly.

"I'm a selfish bastard, Aziraphale. That's probably the last time I'll be altruistic enough to suggest it."

"Good. We've had quite enough of that." Aziraphale felt Crowley relax against him, leaning further into his chest. "Though you  _ were  _ incorrect, before."

"I've probably been wrong a hundred times tonight, angel, so you'll have to be more specific."

"I'm not the first real thing that's ever been in your flat, Crowley." Aziraphale heard the rasp in his voice and cleared his throat, though he doubted it would do any good. "There's been you. You're real."

"Working on it," Crowley answered, after a long moment. "I really am."

"As am I," Aziraphale admitted. "Perhaps, then, we could both work on ourselves together." He looked at Crowley, shirt half open, hair a muddled wreck instead of the elegant, neat style he usually wore it in, and he knew this was more than a passing attraction. He desired Crowley, of course, and found him incredibly handsome, but it was the vulnerability in his eyes that drew Aziraphale in much more than any of the rest of it.

"Angel," Crowley said, in a tone so uncertain that it broke Aziraphale's heart just a little. "If you repeat this to anyone later, I'll deny it, but can I make a confession?"

The twitching of Crowley's fingers and the grim set of his mouth pulled Aziraphale in, and he pulled Crowley into his arms.

"Of course." Crowley tucked in under Aziraphale's chin, pressing close.

"I'm afraid I'll muck things up with you."

"If you'd like to slow down, I could sleep on your so—"

"I  _ don't _ want to slow down," Crowley said, barely above a whisper. "I wish I was smoother," he added, some humor finally filtering into his voice. "This isn't much of a seduction."

"Oh, I don't know." Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley's cheek, an innocent gesture on the face of it, but he watched Crowley close his eyes and shiver as though it had been something much more daring. "You have me in your bedroom, and I want…" He paused, wondering if he was being presumptuous, but the way Crowley was trembling against him gave him courage. "I believe I want what you want."

Crowley pulled away, looking directly into Aziraphale's eyes for longer than should have been comfortable for either of them, but Aziraphale simply found himself in wonder at the defined lines of Crowley's face and the openness in his eyes.

"I know what I want, angel. Everything. I'm a greedy bastard. Are you sure that's all righ—"

Aziraphale cut him off with a kiss, his hands finding Crowley's waist and tightening, pulling them together. Crowley sighed into it, going limp for a moment until he slid his fingers into Aziraphale's hair. Nails scratched along his scalp before Crowley's grip tightened into the curls, adjusting the angle of the kiss.

Aziraphale felt that in his knees, and he had to lock them in place before they gave out on him. When they broke apart, he was gasping for breath, light-headed.

They needed to talk, at least a bit, so he could ensure he wouldn't do anything Crowley didn't enjoy, but he couldn't find the words. The irony of his life, spent reading every text he could get his hands on and delighting in the intricacies of language, yet he went blank in the very moment when he wanted more than anything to be eloquent.

(At this point, he'd settle for intelligible, though he wondered if he'd disappoint himself even there.)

"What can I do for you, Aziraphale?" Crowley asked, his lips brushing against Aziraphale's cheek as he spoke. "I'll give you anything."

_ Of course _ , Aziraphale thought to himself, his fingers tightening around Crowley's arms, pushing divots into the flesh there. Crowley was sweeping in to the rescue, beginning the conversation when Aziraphale hadn't been able to.

"Do you like…" Crowley continued, swallowing hard, and Aziraphale watched with fascination as his Adam's apple moved in his throat.

"I like it all," he confessed, "though I know that isn't a helpful answer."

"Not really, angel," Crowley said, sounding put out, but after a moment he began to laugh. Aziraphale joined him, feeling the tension in his shoulders melt away as they clung to each other, giggling like idiots.

"Perhaps you could take the lead, this time?" Aziraphale chanced, using all of his courage to hold Crowley's gaze.

The last vestiges of laughter left Crowley's face, his expression turning unguarded, full of wonder, and he surged forward to bring them together in another kiss. 

* * *

Crowley's heart was nearly beating its way out of his chest as he tried to master himself enough to 'take the lead,' as Aziraphale had asked. Pressing forward, he felt Aziraphale relax into the circle of his arms, sighing into another kiss as Crowley tried to make the most of the barely-there difference in their heights.

When he next opened his eyes, it was to sight the unmade mess of his bed over Aziraphale's shoulder. He sent one last, desperate wish upward into the universe that he'd be able to hold it together and began to walk them deeper into his bedroom, stopping only when Aziraphale seemed to notice the backs of his calves brushing the side of the mattress.

Aziraphale began to pull away, about to sit on the edge of the bed, when Crowley stopped him.

"Something I'd like to take care of, first," Crowley whispered, tugging on the end of Aziraphale's bow tie and sliding it out of his collar before carefully setting it down on his ultra-modern monstrosity of a bedside table.

Aziraphale countered by taking the avant-garde silver necktie-thing Crowley had thrown on that morning and pulling it over his head, placing it next to his own bow tie on the table.

Their outer layers followed, hands tangling as they each tried to help the other, laughing again when their eager fingers clashed. Crowley assumed Aziraphale was fastidious enough about his clothing that he'd appreciate Crowley making the effort to throw them on hangers in his closet, but Aziraphale wasn't having it. He pulled Crowley into a kiss that was deeper and filthier than anything that had come before it, and everything in his arms fell to the floor, utterly forgotten.

"Shall we get the lights, darling?" Aziraphale whispered, brushing his lips over Crowley's cheek as he spoke. Crowley had to swallow twice to find enough of his voice to answer.

"We can if you really want me to," Crowley said, letting his eyes trail across the magnificence that was Aziraphale, in Crowley's bedroom, down to his shirtsleeves. "But I can't tell you how much I want to see you."

Crowley forced himself not to squeeze his eyes shut in panic at hearing how needy he'd sounded. Must be a real turn-on, finding yourself stuck with a clingy bastard who ruined things with— 

"All right," Aziraphale said, his eyes impossibly soft as he agreed. 

It took a moment for him to begin, but with a firm set of his jaw, he began to unbuckle his belt. Crowley watched, breath held, as Aziraphale's hands moved. The trousers were on the floor, pooled around Aziraphale's feet, before it occurred to Crowley that he should probably do the same.

He toed out of his shoes first, then unzipped his jeans and began the struggle of pulling them off. This normally included a little hopping in place and a lot of swearing, but he hoped the guiding forces of the universe might take pity on him this time and just let them slip to the floor.

When he nearly face-planted into a shocked-looking, bare-legged Aziraphale, Crowley had to admit that he probably wasn't going to be that lucky.

They both froze, eyes locked, until the tiniest giggle escaped Aziraphale's lips.

"Oh, my dear. I'm so sorry, I don't mean to—" he said, mastering himself quickly as his lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile.

"No, you're right," Crowley huffed, straightening up to catch his breath. "These things are ridiculous. I should really stop wearing—"

"Ah, Crowley," Aziraphale cut in, closing the distance between them and letting his hands rest heavily on the small of Crowley's back. "Wear whatever you'd like, of course, but I should really admit to you how much I admire what these do for your posterior." Aziraphale's hands slid inside, under the fabric still clinging to Crowley's hips. "Perhaps I could be of assistance?"

All Crowley could manage was a silent nod. Aziraphale's movements were strong and firm, yet still gentle, treating Crowley as something to be cherished and cared for. His ridiculous, too-tight trousers responded the same way Crowley did to the attention—all but melting into a puddle as Aziraphale's hands ran down Crowley's hips and legs, taking the fabric with them.

Aziraphale knelt to finish the job, supporting Crowley's weight while he lifted first one foot, then the other, then tossing the jeans away to sit atop the growing pile of their clothing.

"You really are so lovely," Aziraphale whispered, his fingers lightly caressing the backs of Crowley's thighs, and Crowley trembled at the touch. When Aziraphale leaned forward, nosing over where Crowley's erection was straining at the front of his underwear, his head dropped back as the world spun around him.

"Aziraphale," Crowley groaned, as he tried to fight the dizziness and find his vocabulary again. "You're…that's…" He moaned, clasping one hand into a fist and letting the other cup Aziraphale's cheek. Aziraphale responded by letting his hands wander upward, each of them taking a handful of Crowley's arse and kneading. A noise like a burnt out motor trying its best to start was all Crowley could produce in response, and he felt Aziraphale chuckle against him.

"Oh, I believe I like you this way. Very much," Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley was floating, coherent thought a long-ago memory, when his mind gave him one last reminder that this wasn't what Aziraphale had asked him for. He'd asked Crowley to lead, yet here he was, trembling and useless while Aziraphale did all the work.

It was ridiculously difficult, but somehow Crowley managed to gently push Aziraphale back, offering him a hand and helping him up.

"You're very distracting," he managed to say, impressed that he'd found his voice again, "but this isn't what you wanted."

Aziraphale blinked at him, his eyes shifting to the side and then back to Crowley, and then away again. It was so adorable that Crowley wanted to pack Aziraphale up and keep him forever, build him something beautiful where he could read and write to his heart's content.

Somehow, Crowley got his fingers to stop trembling and he reached forward, easing the buttons down the front of Aziraphale's pale blue shirt free one at a time. A vest awaited him underneath, hiding the expanse of Aziraphale's broad chest, but both items of clothing quickly found their way to the floor at Crowley's hands.

Aziraphale looked vaguely uncomfortable, shifting his weight from side to side, so Crowley evened the playing field by yanking his own shirt over his head and tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. He watched Aziraphale's eyes widen, and then darken, roving over Crowley's chest. The two of them came together, and the dizziness returned at the feeling of so much skin on skin. Aziraphale was warm and soft, and Crowley worried he'd leave Aziraphale wanting in comparison—his sharp edges and spare flesh seemed so barely there, yet Aziraphale moaned into his mouth as his hands explored the landscape of Crowley's skin.

There was the gentlest pull toward the bed. Crowley was so lost that he found he had no idea which of them had initiated it, but he followed Aziraphale as he eased backward. Crowley settled into the cradle of his thighs and almost blacked out at the wave of pleasure that overtook him when they both moved their hips, straining toward each other.

"Crowley, I—"

"Sorry, angel. I really need a moment here." Crowley sat up and looked his fill, watching Aziraphale's chest heaving with deep breaths against the backdrop of Crowley's black silk sheets, all the while hoping his staring wasn't too weird. "You're…"

"Finally out of my unfashionable clothing?" Aziraphale cut in, and it was clear he was trying to make light of things. He was trying so hard not to betray the anxiety Crowley could see, despite Aziraphale's efforts, set into the angles of his face.

"You're here," Crowley said, the deep, mortifying truth fighting its way out. "You're real. And you…" Crowley had to swallow after that, feeling his voice about to cut out and be replaced with a sob. This was too fast, too much;  _ he  _ was too much. How could the certainty pulsing through every last shred of him feel so absolute? Aziraphale still looked worried, surely wondering why Crowley was just hovering over him, staring. "You…" Crowley repeated, finding his voice completely useless when he tried to continue. 

_ You trust me _ , he wanted to tell him, but he couldn't make himself say it. He'd give the game away, pointing out that Aziraphale probably  _ shouldn't  _ trust someone like Crowley. Maybe Aziraphale would come to his senses and escape Crowley's gravitational pull, pulling free of the nothingness around him that ruined anything and anyone who came too close.

He swallowed, trying to force himself to stop being useless. If Aziraphale deserved better than Crowley but still, paradoxically,  _ wanted  _ Crowley…well, Crowley would just have to be better for him and hope it might be enough.

"You must be cold, Aziraphale," Crowley heard himself say, wondering when his voice had come back and who was operating it for him. "Let's warm you up." 

He bent down and nuzzled into Aziraphale's neck, and the noise he made when Crowley let his teeth rake over the pulse point there went straight to his lizard hindbrain, heating his blood and sending most of it downward. Aziraphale shivered and sighed beneath him, hands tangled in Crowley's hair as he began to explore further.

A gentle kiss just over the breastbone made Aziraphale's eyes fly open, locking with Crowley's as Crowley ran his tongue in a wide stripe over his nipple. The way Aziraphale reacted—arching his back with a low, decadent moan—made Crowley feel like he'd just caught on fire. He worshipped like every beat of his heart depended on it, drinking in Aziraphale's reactions as he sucked it into a tight, hard point.

"Oh, Crowley. You clever, wicked thing," Aziraphale gasped.

Crowley would have to work harder if Aziraphale was still capable of complete sentences.

He slipped down further, wondering if he should skip the slight swell of Aziraphale's belly. He'd seemed protective of it earlier, worried about letting Crowley see it. Aziraphale's hand cheated inward to cover it as Crowley pondered, proving him right.

Crowley glanced up and then kissed over Aziraphale's fingers, chastely at first, but then he took the index finger into his mouth and sucked on it. Aziraphale arched up into him again, and Crowley tried his damnedest to drown out the worries about his body with pure sensation. If only he could communicate in some more explicit way how much he adored the plush softness of Aziraphale's body, how it contrasted with the wiry concavity of his own.

Crowley loved it. He loved it because it was Aziraphale, and it was becoming more and more clear that Crowley was falling harder and faster for Aziraphale than he'd ever thought possible. He could love him, turning this new and fragile thing they'd found into something lasting. Something like forever.

He let Aziraphale's hand drop from his mouth at the revelation, leaning up to capture Aziraphale's mouth with his. What began sweetly turned filthy almost immediately, Aziraphale's hands wandering down Crowley's back to squeeze under the waistband of his impractically tight briefs and take two handfuls of flesh, fingers digging into the muscle and making Crowley buck into him. It pulled low, desperate moans from both of them, and Crowley needed more.

As though reading his mind, Aziraphale tugged his underwear downward. Crowley took the hint, miraculously finding a way to struggle them off with the only indignity coming in the form of a brief, uncoordinated flail of one leg. The hungry look Aziraphale fixed on his cock nearly caused Crowley to pass out, so he turned his attention to working Aziraphale's adorably sensible boxer shorts down his legs.

The moment his eyes found Aziraphale's cock, he wondered if perhaps Aziraphale's request for Crowley to 'take the lead' had been more conceptual rather than an oblique request for a top/bottom configuration, as Crowley was taken with a sudden and intense desire to see how quickly he could work that satisfying thickness inside of him. Aziraphale could stay right where he was, luxuriating in the softness of the silk sheets as Crowley rode him. He couldn't imagine Aziraphale would be upset, per se, but it probably wasn't what he’d had in mind.

With any luck, there'd be a next time and the subject of a reversal could be broached. (There was always tomorrow morning, Thursday next week, an every-other Sunday treat, or any number of times between now and the forever Crowley was increasingly sure he wanted to spend with Aziraphale, whose hips were now straining upward underneath him, looking for friction.) 

He shimmied down, knowing he needed that cock inside him  _ somehow _ , and ran his tongue over the head of it, enjoying the sound of Aziraphale catching his breath and holding it while he writhed against the bed. Crowley didn't make him wait in suspense for long (he wanted Aziraphale in his mouth too badly to tease) and swallowed as much of Aziraphale's length as he could. 

"Fuck," Aziraphale swore, and it was so delightfully out of character that it was nearly enough to distract Crowley from the feeling of having his mouth full, his throat swallowing reflexively as he began to move.

Crowley tried to make it good, hollowing out his cheeks as he took him in and curling his tongue around the head when he withdrew, white noise in his ears blanking out everything but the feel of Aziraphale inside him. 

He felt his fingers digging into Aziraphale's hips and he tried to stop, worried about leaving bruises, but Aziraphale keened when he eased back, a noise that sounded like loss. He went back to it, fingers curling mercilessly as he took Aziraphale even deeper, and the satisfied moan that followed made him move even faster. He began to suck indulgently on the head every time he withdrew, harder than he might have otherwise when he heard the almost prayer-like litanies that left Aziraphale's lips each time he did it. 

Too soon— _ far  _ too soon for Crowley, who felt like he could do this for years and not tire of it—Aziraphale's hands tightened in his hair and tried weakly to pull him back.

"Crowley, please. I can't…I'm going to…"

_ Do it _ , Crowley thought. He wanted to feel the man lose control. He slowed his pace to hopefully buy a few moment's time, wondering if Aziraphale would be able to bear being fucked while still shivering and oversensitive from his own orgasm. The very idea of watching Aziraphale writhe and babble out nonsense while Crowley was above him— _ inside  _ him—was almost too tempting to abandon. Crowley pulled back, though, when he realized it would almost certainly be too much, and Christ, he wasn't willing to chance it.

He pulled away, taking in a breathless and flushed Aziraphale before he leaned up, grimacing as he realized there was no smooth or suave way to grab the slick and a condom from the drawer of his bedside table. 

Aziraphale didn't seem to mind, his half-lidded eyes following Crowley's movements as he eased his legs just that tiny bit wider in a clear gesture that meant,  _ yes, this, I want you this way, _ and Crowley wondered what he'd ever done in his life to deserve something like this.

Crowley began, making sure he used enough of the slick to not hurt Aziraphale, and he sucked and bit at his neck to distract him from that first breach. Aziraphale tightened at first, and Crowley understood the reflex at that sense of intrusion, gentling the movement of his finger until he could feel Aziraphale relax again.

He wasn't at all shocked to find this was yet another thing he could imagine doing with Aziraphale forever, pulling gasps and moans from the man as he moved his hand, kissing and biting and licking against his neck as he worked. He lost track of time, his body taking over where his mind ceased to function, as he reveled in the softness and strength of Aziraphale's body.

"Please, Crowley. Please," Aziraphale began to whisper, the undulating of his hips more purposeful now, and Crowley realized he'd been so lost in what they were doing that he'd failed to notice how impatient Aziraphale had become.

His throat was choked closed as he put on the condom with shaking hands, then shifted himself into the cradle of Aziraphale's hips. "Is this all right?" Crowley managed to croak, his voice sounding hoarse and breathless as he took in the affirmative nonsense Aziraphale whispered into his skin.

Crowley's back bowed as he pushed forward, the heat and pressure making him squeeze his eyes shut as his forehead fell forward to rest against Aziraphale's. He waited—he had to give Aziraphale time to adjust—until he couldn't imagine his heart continuing to beat without being able to move his hips. And then he made himself go slow, blocking out that demanding, wanting voice in the back of his mind screaming at him to sink in and  _ take _ .

"Oh,  _ Crowley _ . You feel…this is so divine. Please.  _ More _ ."

Aziraphale's hands found purchase on Crowley's hips and  _ pulled _ , choking a shocked sputter out of Crowley as he struggled to hang on. Aziraphale's fingers dug into Crowley's arse greedily, and it was all Crowley could do to stop himself from giving in.

He went slow, withdrawing almost all the way before sliding forward again, moans pulled unbidden from his throat as he held himself back. Aziraphale strained upward, chasing every movement of Crowley's, and Crowley had to take a deep, slow breath to resist.

Aziraphale didn't stop, though, meeting every thrust with a whispered  _ please _ or a sharp bite of Crowley's neck.

"Angel," Crowley moaned. "I'll never last if you—"

"Then don't. I don't care about that. I need you."

Crowley growled in frustration. Aziraphale was greedy and wanting beneath him, and Crowley was  _ still  _ trying to hold back, to go slow. He wanted to draw this out, to show Aziraphale that Crowley could be worthy of him. He'd sooner feed himself into a wood chipper than disappoint Aziraphale by going off right away like a bloody teenager.

He kept himself steady somehow, eyelids fluttering at the warmth of Aziraphale around him, the sensations shooting through him and making his toes curl as he braced himself on his knees to get more leverage.

"You're so perfect, but please, more," Aziraphale said, his voice breathy and overcome. Crowley, humiliatingly, nearly went off like a shot at the praise.

He'd never had such trouble holding back before, but then, he realized, he'd never felt this invested before. He'd always maintained a level of detachment before this, making his pleasure easy to stave off, like an afterthought, a perfunctory scratching of an itch. He cared about Aziraphale in a way he couldn't explain, drank in every sound and every movement beneath him as he tried to make Aziraphale feel even a fraction of what Crowley felt, being inside him.

Aziraphale's hands tangled in Crowley's hair as he writhed into the mattress, and Crowley was barely holding himself together when the fingers twisted and  _ pulled _ . Crowley let out an honest-to-God shout of surprise, and it was the flare of embarrassment at the noise he'd made that finally broke him.

"Yes," Aziraphale moaned as Crowley hitched his hips up higher and pounded into him, losing all semblance of control as Aziraphale continued to tug at Crowley's hair, the mixture of pain and pleasure coursing through him as he bore down and just  _ took _ .

He could feel Aziraphale's lips and teeth skittering over his skin, his scalp tingling from the pulling of his hair, and his stomach began to tighten. Gritting his teeth to stave it off as much as he could, he continued his quick, unforgiving thrusts into the warmth of Aziraphale's body.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale stammered. "Just there, oh my lord, just there."

Crowley narrowed his focus to one thing—pounding into Aziraphale at just that same angle as many times as possible—until he felt Aziraphale gasp and contract around him, wetness spilling between them. With a roar, Crowley followed, everything in the world falling away except for Aziraphale. Exhaustion shouldered its way in all too soon, taking over from the ecstasy of the high as Crowley collapsed into the strength of Aziraphale's arms.

They were both a mess, but Aziraphale didn't seem to mind as he settled Crowley to his side, his hands soothing over the hair he'd been tugging to the point of pain just moments ago.

"That was incredible, angel," Crowley couldn't quite stop himself from saying, and he cringed until he felt Aziraphale's laugh shaking his chest where Crowley had pillowed his head.

"I hope you could tell how much I agree with you," Aziraphale answered, placing a firm kiss to the top of Crowley's head.

"Might be up for awhile," Crowley said, knowing that he sounded ridiculous and almost incomprehensible as he'd wrestled all of those words out through a truly massive yawn. "Don't worry about me, though, if you want to go to sleep."

"Of course, my dear. I'm sure I'll drop off here in a moment."

Crowley nodded, relishing the warmth of Aziraphale's skin under his cheek, and slipped rather quickly into unconsciousness.


	10. The Next Morning

Crowley became aware of fingers brushing his hair back while he was still mostly asleep, in that limbo-state of drowsy weightlessness as he shook off the last fragments of his dream and opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the soft perfection of Aziraphale's arm hooked around his ribcage, the palm opened just over Crowley's heart. He bent forward and placed a lazy kiss over Aziraphale's fingers, pausing there as he wondered how they'd be with each other now, if the dynamic would change.

"Oh dear, I didn't mean to wake you."

"'S'fine," Crowley mumbled, his mouth still slack from sleep. He arched his back—not too much, which would push Aziraphale away, but just enough to press them even more closely together. They were bundled into the topmost blanket on the bed, and Crowley wondered idly how Aziraphale had gotten it out from under them, and then it occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale must have cleaned them up too, all without waking him. He sent a thought out into the universe— _ he's perfect, so please don't let me fuck this up _ —and clutched tighter at the warmth and strength of Aziraphale's arms around him. Aziraphale responded with a sigh and nuzzled into Crowley's hair, and Crowley shut his eyes again, trying to recapture that floating feeling of being half-asleep. "Don't want to miss any of this."

"I don't either," Aziraphale whispered, then pressed a kiss just behind Crowley's ear. "I can't seem to drop back off."

"Wait." Crowley nearly sat up to look Aziraphale in the eye, but then realized that would put an end to the arm around him and the way they were pressed together, so he settled for twisting around briefly to peer over his shoulder, meaning to return to his current position as soon as possible. "How long have you been up? It'll be an awful blow to my ego if I didn't utterly tire you out."

Aziraphale chuckled at that, and his arm tightened to bring Crowley more firmly into his chest. Safely turned back around, Crowley could allow his eyelids to flutter as he tingled all the way down to his toes. 

(He had a feeling Aziraphale wouldn't mind even if he did see how wanting and needy Crowley was right now, but…well. Crowley supposed there was no harm in waiting to test that.)

"Your ego is safe. I'm not a very good sleeper, I'm afraid, even when I  _ am _ utterly exhausted." He placed a slow, open-mouthed kiss just behind Crowley's ear, somehow managing to lave his tongue over the exact spot that sent sparks down Crowley's spine. "Which I assure you, I was—am still, to be honest. I'm afraid it isn't unusual for me to wake several times during the night and take some time to drift off again."

"I'd tell you a story, angel, but I'm rubbish at making things up. You be the storyteller and maybe we can drift off again?"

"Something fanciful?" Aziraphale said, his breath warm on Crowley's neck as he wiggled himself deeper into the pillows at the head of Crowley's bed. "Knights tromping around the countryside in Arthurian times?"

"Causing mayhem?" Crowley added, earning another chuckle from Aziraphale.

"Defending those who can't defend themselves," Aziraphale amended.

"Well, I s'pose that's all right, then. As long as no one but you finds out I'm on the right side of things."

"However could we tell if we were on the right side?" Aziraphale paused after this for so long that Crowley began to wonder if he'd fallen back asleep, but then he answered his own question in a small, thoughtful voice. "That's the difficulty, then, in the story. Endeavoring to put yourself on the side of right in a world where the lines aren't so clear cut."

Before he could stop himself, and cringing as he heard himself say it, Crowley whispered, "Any side we could be on together sounds right to me."

He waited, not sure what sort of reaction he was dreading, but all that happened was a rumbling noise of agreement coming from Aziraphale, followed by some open-mouthed kisses placed just at the top of Crowley's spine.

"Mmm, Aziraphale," Crowley moaned shamelessly, warmth suffusing him at being held like this. It was dizzying, this feeling of the two of them together, all the barriers gone (at least for now). "Aziraphale," he said again, savoring each sound of it, and he felt Aziraphale shiver behind him. "You shouldn't hide it, you know, your name. Suits you perfectly."

"I fear too many would disagree with you, my dear. You must admit, it's rather odd." There was more quiet for a moment, followed by a soft kiss over the spot where his neck met his shoulder. "Though, I suppose, I only have myself to blame."

Crowley frowned.

"Wha'd'you mean, for not legally changing it?"

"Ah," Aziraphale said, and Crowley was quickly learning that this is what Aziraphale said once he'd realized something had slipped out that he'd meant to keep to himself. "No. I chose this name for myself, if you can believe it. When I was seven years old. I was John, before that—the name the nuns gave me."

"The nuns?"

"Do you know, I've never told anyone this before," Aziraphale whispered, more to himself than to Crowley, from the sound of it.

"You don't have to—"

"I don't think I'd mind," he said, as though he could hardly believe it. "I suppose I should start at the beginning, if I'm telling it. I was surrendered by my mother as a newborn, you see. Grew up in a children's home."

Aziraphale's voice had gone strangely flat, featureless. It made Crowley twist around, careful not to dislodge Aziraphale's arms from curving around him, and clasped Aziraphale to his chest.

"I was always desperate to make myself useful. I'd heard the nuns discussing some of the adoptions when I was barely old enough to understand what they were saying, and they made it sound very grim. Children adopted to help with the family business, or to prop up a failing marriage. No stories of happy endings. Oh, now that I look back, I'm sure there were some. They simply wouldn't have been worth discussing, I suppose. I didn't know that then, though."

Crowley was quiet, careful not to dole out anything that would seem pitying, not even an ill-timed  _ hmm _ . Aziraphale was sharing something precious, something it seemed he'd never entrusted to another living soul, and Crowley wanted more than anything to be worthy of it.

"I was always underfoot, volunteering for chores, and I suppose they must have gotten so used to me being around that many of the nuns would discuss things with each other as though I wasn't there. When they started sending groups of children on 'day trips' from which they never returned, I was, of course, curious. They told us they'd been adopted, but in private, they talked about how they'd been sent on to orphanages in other countries. It sounded...awful. They seemed to know they'd sent those children off to even more difficult lives, glorified child labor camps. I was terrified I'd be sent as well, so I did everything in my power to make myself indispensable. Helped with the other children, especially those who had trouble caring for themselves. Learnt a bit of sign language to help with the group of deaf children who lived in our home. Told them I wanted to change my name, and chose something specifically that I thought sounded like an angel's name to prove to them that I was dedicated to the faith. One of the nicest of them suggested the last name 'Frost' for me to use, after my white hair."

Crowley tightened his arms around Aziraphale, amazed at how incredibly strong Aziraphale was. He took a chance and whispered as much into his hair, earning a squeeze back from those perfect arms that were now wound around his waist.

"I attended university when I aged out and studied English Literature at the suggestion of one of the elder nuns, whom I'd spent many of my evenings reading to after her eyes had gone. She was the one who introduced me to all the great works. Told me I had the mind for it, to take a story apart and see what made it tick."

"You do," Crowley said, relaxing his arms enough to pull back and look Aziraphale in the eyes. "You should be doing something better than writing a rubbish book about me."

"And you deserve better than  _ having  _ a rubbish book written about you."

Crowley scoffed and pulled him closer so that he couldn't see whatever ridiculous expression was traipsing its way across his face, swallowing back that  _ oh fuck, I'm about to cry  _ feeling in the back of his throat. 

Aziraphale tilted his head upward after a moment, and Crowley ducked down to kiss him. There was no heat in it, just an almost unbearably intimate sharing of space. With his eyes shut, Crowley could feel the greedy, needy core of him basking in Aziraphale's warmth, drinking it all in and recharging itself.

"Thank you," Aziraphale whispered.

"For what?"

"For listening, of course. I think I've needed to say all of that out loud for quite some time, now. I'm honored you were willing to hear it."

"Anything, angel," Crowley said, bracing their foreheads together and just breathing in the feeling.

"Do you know, I think I'm beginning to feel tired again," Aziraphale said, his voice distorted by a yawn halfway through.

"Sleep. I've got you."

Crowley felt the last remnants of tension flow out of Aziraphale's body, the minute strain in his muscles disappearing. The sound of his breathing slowed, evening out, and it was to that gentle rhythm that Crowley dropped off as well.

* * *

Aziraphale woke before Crowley did, pulled out of slumber by the pathetic dying noises of his mobile from across the room, where it was still tucked neatly into his coat pocket. Despite the inauspicious start, he found himself feeling quite well-rested, even without a full night's sleep. He took the opportunity to prop himself up on Crowley's sinfully plush pillows with his notebook and favorite pen, writing as quickly as his hand would move.

He had to force himself to stick to the absolute twaddle Gabriel and Crowley's family would be expecting, but once he distanced himself (and the truth) from it, the words began to flow. He began to think of it as a novel, one that featured a main character who looked suspiciously like Crowley yet shared very little else with him. The actual Crowley remained asleep next to him, hair riotous against the black silk, and face slack and trusting as he dozed.

Time slipped by quickly, measured only in the number of pages Aziraphale had filled with prose and outline. Though he fervently hoped the commissioned book would never see the light of day, he had no way of knowing how the next few months would play out. Keeping to what was expected of them while they worked with the police to influence things for the better seemed to be the safest path.

The line of sunlight that had fought its way through Crowley's partially opened blinds had slowly marched across the bed, now casting blurry lines of light and dark along the sharp angles of Crowley's face. He frowned and squeezed his eyes tightly shut in his sleep once the light hit them, the expression so guileless and somehow very Crowley, for all that Aziraphale imagined he would suppress it if he were conscious.

Aziraphale wanted to cast the notebook aside and burrow back under the bedcovers, taking Crowley into his arms to help convince himself this wasn't just a particularly detailed dream. Yet, Gabriel would be expecting at least an outline, if not a chapter or two, sooner rather than later, and it was important not to arouse any suspicion. Crowley's very safety, as the two of them navigated the police investigation into the dealings of Crowley's family, might depend on it.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the thought of Gabriel, how he would soon be nosing his way into the project, wanting to micromanage the process because he'd obviously never trusted Aziraphale from the day he'd been hired by the home office and assigned to the London branch. If Aziraphale were to open his email, he knew there would be enquiries waiting there—requests for outlines and passages for Gabriel to decorate with his red pen. They'd have to juggle all these annoyances against the police investigation that also loomed over them.

The welling anxiety slackened his grip, the notebook dropping to his lap. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath in an attempt to quell the shaking of his hands. Sitting here next to Crowley while writing an abhorrent book full of lies about him, the uncertainty over what Officer Young would need for them hovering a layer above, and Aziraphale suddenly found himself choking on the even breaths he'd been trying to take.

"Hey, Aziraphale," Crowley said, his hands gentle as the bed shifted under them when Crowley moved to pull Aziraphale into an embrace. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Crowley's voice was raspy and slightly slurred with residual drowsiness, but the raw concern in his tone was evident, coaxing Aziraphale to lean heavily into Crowley's chest.

It took longer than Aziraphale would have cared to admit for him to calm himself, yet Crowley wrapped him in the blanket and his arms, whispering quiet nonsense against his neck while he waited with seemingly endless patience for Aziraphale to be able to explain.

"I'm not hurt," he finally managed, feeling Crowley's arms tighten almost imperceptibly when Aziraphale began to speak. "I was working on the book, and then I began to think." He waited for a moment, wondering if Crowley would break in, make a joke, try to lighten the mood. Instead, there was just the certainty of the embrace and a subtly encouraging whisper of Crowley's lips pressing into Aziraphale's shoulder. "I'm worried for you. For what will happen."

"I'll make sure nothing happens to you, angel. I promise you that."

"I'm concerned for  _ you. _ "

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, the vibration of it passing into Aziraphale's skin where Crowley's mouth was still firmly pressed against him.

"Might be time for us to arrange a meeting with this policeman who contacted you. I think I know a place for it that'll just about eliminate the chances of my family cottoning on." He hummed again, blossoming into a rumbling noise filled with consonants. Crowley repositioned them, firmly but gently encouraging Aziraphale to shuffle onto his side so that they could look at each other.

And though Crowley was clearly focused on trying to help, making a plan to meet with Officer Young in an attempt to find out where they stood, Aziraphale was suddenly struck by how lucky he was to be here, to have met Crowley, and that Crowley had trusted him enough to let him in under the façade.

"Good morning," Aziraphale said, and was rewarded with a look of fond exasperation settling over Crowley's features.

"Good afternoon, I would think," Crowley said, leaning forward to bring their foreheads together, their legs tangling as they pressed more closely against each other.

"Yes," Aziraphale said, on a sigh. "It is, isn't it?"

* * *

They breathed together in the half-sunlit, half-darkness of the bedroom, Crowley content to simply lie there and count heartbeats. (Didn't matter if they were his or Aziraphale's, they still measured out each perfect moment that passed as the two of them remained quietly tangled together.)

Aziraphale was the first to nuzzle closer in toward Crowley's lips, capturing them in a slow, almost uncoordinated kiss. It was enough to  _ almost  _ obliterate his plan-making thoughts from all of two minutes ago, but he managed to grasp onto clarity with two shaking, grasping hands and pull away.

"It's not fair, you lying here, being you, distracting me like this." Crowley shut his eyes and arched into the touch as Aziraphale caressed lightly behind his ear. 

"You don't seem to mind very much," Aziraphale observed, the hint of a laugh in his voice.

"Well, of course I don't," Crowley groused, and he'd almost be annoyed if he wasn't entirely besotted instead. "You can't expect me to act like an adult all on my own. I have hardly any practice at it."

Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley's eyes snapped open when the hand disappeared from the trail it had been forging along his neck.

"You're right. Not about you not being an adult, of course, but about arranging the meeting. You said you had an idea how to go about it without attracting attention?"

It took a moment, but Crowley blinked away the phantom sensation of Aziraphale's hand, cleared his throat a few times, and set his mind back to business.

"Yeah. Need to make a call and hope Anathema's game to help us out."

"Oh, dear. Are you certain we should bring someone else into this?"

"I have a foolproof plan for concealment. No one will ever know," Crowley said, squinting as he sat up, letting the blanket pool in his lap while he tried to remember which piece of clothing his phone had been in. He had only just realized he was about to get up, completely starkers, in much brighter light than Aziraphale had seen him in the night before. He wasted a moment considering alternatives (there were none, not without ripping the blanket off the bed and rather ungallantly leaving Aziraphale uncovered) before he realized it was useless to stall.

The only evidence that Aziraphale was watching him once he stood and began to walk toward his discarded clothes was a sharp inhale of breath, followed by a half-hearted noise that was trying to be throat-clearing, but came out more as a broken squeak. Crowley turned to make some sort of sarcastic remark, though once he saw the delicate opening of Aziraphale's mouth and then took in the darkening of his eyes, Crowley forgot all about not having a stitch on. He just stood there, some dim part of his brain registering that they were gawping at each other like idiots, but mostly just wanting to retake the warm space next to Aziraphale and put off dealing with the real world for as long as possible.

Aziraphale seemed to remember himself first. "Oh, good lord." He looked down at his lap, blinking furiously. "How beastly of me to leer at you that way. Do forgive me, my dear." 

"Leer all you like," Crowley said, trying to appear carefree as he forced himself not to rush pulling some clothes out of the dresser and then slipped into them. (Tripping over his own feet trying to shove his legs into his underwear would hardly be sexy.) 

"Don't tempt me this way, my dear, or you'll never be rid of me."

That made Crowley freeze for a moment, blinking idiotically at the drawer, contemplating the notion of being rid of Aziraphale. Where was the creeping panic, the fear of being trapped with someone? The heavy weight of expectations settling on his chest and making it hard to breathe?

It was all missing, replaced with this pathetically earnest desire to buy a little house somewhere and fill it with Aziraphale and all of his books…give him the perfect room to write in and the ability to leave his creativity-killing job. Crowley wanted to be the one to replace the gone-cold cup of tea at Aziraphale's side with a fresh one when he lost himself in whatever he was working on.

He forced himself to act normally, pawing through last night's clothes on the floor until he found his nearly-dead phone tucked away in a pocket. He couldn't let on what he'd been thinking about. Aziraphale would run for the hills.

"Just enough charge left to call Anathema, I think. I'll grab some juice for it while we're getting ready to go."

"I'm sure mine has been dead for hours."

"Oh, right." Crowley had seen Aziraphale's phone—state of the four-years-ago art. "I don't think I have a charger for that. D'you think you've missed—"

"I  _ never  _ 'miss' that device, I assure you. No need to deal with it. However, I don't suppose your plan allows for dropping by mine for a change of clothes," Aziraphale asked, face crumpling thoughtfully as he regarded his own pile of discarded items on Crowley's bedroom floor.

"Hmm, no. I can set you up with my shopping service, though. They can have whatever you need over here in 30 minutes." Crowley grabbed his wafer-thin laptop and opened it, navigating quickly to the shopping courier portal before he set it down on Aziraphale's lap.

"Oh, I couldn't," Aziraphale said, blinking at the screen. "This delivery fee alone…"

"...is nothing, Aziraphale, if it lets us get this done this morning without putting you in danger." And if Crowley was being completely honest with himself, he was really enjoying this feeling of taking care of Aziraphale. Making sure he had what he needed to be happy and comfortable…it felt like something he could get used to. 

"Or you, Crowley."

"Sure," Crowley shrugged. "Neither of us in danger, if you insist. Order whatever you need and it'll probably be here before I'm out of the shower." 

Still looking uncomfortable but more resolved, Aziraphale began to tap around on the laptop and Crowley took that opportunity to slip out of the room to call Anathema. It took several minutes and a few hissed threats they both knew he didn't mean to get past her questioning about how the rest of Crowley's evening had gone, but he eventually got her agreement for his plan.

This would work. Anathema's building was basically Fort Knox with a discreet, private garage entrance. They could call in Aziraphale's police contact from Anathema's phone once they were there, and the meeting could happen with no one else the wiser.

(As he stalked off toward the shower, he knew he shouldn't relish this 'secret agent undercover behind enemy lines' feeling quite so much, but given that it seemed to be keeping his somewhat legendary anxiety levels down, he wasn't inclined to argue with it.)


	11. Crowley Meets Adam

Aziraphale emerged from Crowley's bathroom already wearing his mixture of old and new clothing. He was halfway through thanking Crowley again for his thoughtfulness in suggesting the shopping service when he saw Crowley staring, ashen-faced, at his mobile.

"What is it, my dear? Something going amiss with the plan?"

Crowley clutched the phone to his chest, looking up at Aziraphale as though he were somehow surprised to see him.

"Crowley? Are you—"

"No. The plan is—" He swallowed. "I'm so sorry, angel. Really. I had a feeling there'd be something, but I had no idea…" Crowley's words were halting and then rushed, a sputtering engine fighting to turn over. "That idiot the paps were following must have given them the slip, and they needed  _ something _ , I guess?"

Aziraphale frowned. He wouldn't be able to help with whatever this was until he got more information, but Crowley seemed far too shaken to explain what had happened.

"Could I see?" he asked, trying not to spook him further by taking a careful step forward, holding out one hand. "I promise you, whatever it is, it can't be so awful that we can't work out how to deal with it."

Crowley clutched the phone to him a moment longer. "Aziraphale, I swear, I didn't know it would be like…" His shoulders dropped in defeat, and he held the mobile out, head down. Aziraphale's heart beat faster, wondering what could possibly be there waiting for him that had made Crowley this distressed.

Once he was able to turn the screen toward him and focus on it, he saw the photo. It was of the two of them, just a few steps away from the entrance to the club the previous night. Aziraphale was slightly in front, head tilted and eyes narrowed at the photographers. It must have been taken when he was midway through telling them all off.

Aziraphale squinted at it. Did his mouth really do  _ that  _ when he spoke?

"They're awful, Aziraphale. I shouldn't have let them near you. I'll…I'll find a solicitor and get you a restraining order, sue them for libel, I dunno. Must be something I can do. You're a private citizen, didn't sign up for…Should have never dragged you to that club, worst thing I ever…fucking hell, I can't—"

"Crowley, dearest," Aziraphale said, putting a gentle hand over Crowley's mouth, sighing with adoration at Crowley's ever-present protective streak for anyone but himself. 

Aziraphale looked at the image again, finally taking in the text beneath it.

> _Aging playboy Tony Crowley spotted out with this odd piece of arm candy. Is this mystery man frumpy or fantastic? We have a feeling one of these two is slumming it with the other, but we can't work out which is which._

"The nerve," Aziraphale muttered, handing the mobile back to Crowley. "How dare they—"

"I know!" Crowley threw his hands back in the air dramatically. "I signed up for this idiocy, but you," Crowley pointed at him, eyes manic and wide, " _ you _ didn't. They have no  _ right  _ to—"

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, and against all odds, Crowley immediately stopped his wild gestures and grand pronouncements and gave Aziraphale his full attention. "Am I to understand you are angry about this solely on  _ my  _ behalf?"

"Well,  _ yeah _ . 'Course I am! They said you were—"

"And you didn't actually sign up for this either, my dear. It's been thrust upon you, or so it seems to me. It's frankly unthinkable that you are so accustomed to this treatment that your only outrage would be for me and not for yourself."

"Angel, I—"

"This seems like the sort of thing we can shelve for now and deal with later, if necessary? I agree with you that it's beastly treatment, but we have other, more important items on the agenda for today, wouldn't you say?"

Crowley just blinked at him.

"You aren't angry?"

"Furious, of course," Aziraphale agreed. "The nerve of them, I can't—"

"At me," Crowley broke in. "You aren't angry at me." It was more of a statement than a question, as though Crowley had already taken in the information but wasn't sure where to go from there.

"Of course not. Crowley, I…" Aziraphale sighed. How could he put this so Crowley would understand, without making it painfully clear how hard and fast Aziraphale was falling for him? What awful timing, with so much at stake with the mess with his family, and here was Aziraphale, weighing Crowley down with pressure and expectations. He settled for a deliberate changing of the subject, the best he could do under the current circumstances. "Let's focus on seeing this meeting through, assuming Anathema was amenable?"

"I—she—yeah. She was. Is." Crowley shook his head, as though trying to restart himself. "She's expecting us. I have the cars all arranged."

"Are we going separately?"

"No." The answer came quick and sounded horrified, and Aziraphale felt better when he realized Crowley didn't seem to want to part any more than Aziraphale did. "I've called in my regular service, which has been instructed to send a car here with tinted windows, and that poor sod will be driving around an empty vehicle all day to various locations in London.  _ Our  _ car will be coming from a service I've never used before, and paid for out of a private account my family doesn't know about. That one will take us to Anathema's, and we'll go in through the secured entrance."

"Anathema's building has a secured entrance?"

"Yeah. Oh—Anathema's  _ loaded _ . Makes my family look like paupers. You should tell her about your horrible boss, and she might get a sudden urge to invest in a publishing company." Aziraphale gasped. "Kidding, angel. Kidding." Crowley paced, looking down at his feet, and then looked back at him. "Unless…?"

"Thank you, dear, but no. I believe I can handle my issues there on my own."

Crowley shrugged. "Your call. I'm sure she'd—" He was interrupted by several noises coming from his mobile in quick succession. "It's here, the real car. Other one's been and gone, in case that bloody idiot Hastur or someone is keeping an eye on us. Should take 'em on a wild goose chase. Wish I could see it."

"We'll have to exercise our imaginations."

"Right," Crowley sighed. "Ready? Sure you don't want to change your mind?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure we can speak with Officer Young and get a much clearer idea of what's happening. Much better than all of this uncertainty."

Aziraphale put out his hand, trying to make a point about how they would solve this together, and he'd have been lying if he said that the gulp that moved Crowley's Adam's apple in response wasn't somehow deeply fulfilling.

"Right. Yeah. Let's go meet him."

* * *

Crowley thought he had planned this maneuver down to the last detail, but he'd failed to take  _ this  _ into account.

Here they were, the three of them, waiting together in Anathema's flat. Once the tea had been made and Anathema's cobbled-together snacks presented, they were left with Anathema staring both of them down, smiling like a shark that had been drawn here by a sprinkling of some unusually delicious chum in the water.

She'd gone from subtle ("How are you both feeling today?") to…decidedly less subtle ("How did you sleep, Crowley? You look tired.") Crowley nearly stood up and cheered when Aziraphale changed the subject to worrying about missing his messages from his dead phone, wringing his hands and really pouring on the nervous energy. Crowley might have bought it himself if Aziraphale hadn't slipped him a cheeky wink when Anathema was looking away.

"You know," Anathema said, after Aziraphale pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed delicately at his forehead, "I might have a charger lying around here somewhere that would work with your phone."

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't," Aziraphale said. "I've been told by  _ someone  _ that it's frightfully out of date. Unless you make a habit of hoarding things from years and years ago…"

"I have another friend who uses older tech. He just doesn't get on with the newer stuff. Let me see what I've got."

She rummaged in a drawer and brought out several tangled black cables, then went to Aziraphale to examine his phone and see if any were a match.

"A-ha!" she cried, holding one of them aloft. "This should work. Let's plug you in."

Aziraphale surrendered his mobile, and Anathema started it charging, dusting her hands off in quiet satisfaction.

"Hey," Crowley said, drawing out the vowel as he stared at the size of the pile of discarded cords. "Who are you keeping all these antiques for? And how often are they  _ here  _ when they need these?" At Anathema's bugged-out eyes and the comically high elevation of her eyebrows, he continued, picking up steam. "And how long have they been visiting you that you have so many  _ different  _ choices ready for them?"

Anathema sighed, flumping into the nearest overstuffed chair as she sighed, resigned.

"You don't know him. He was making a delivery to that jerk I share this floor with, and he hit his head while he was there but didn't start feeling sick until after he'd made it back into the hallway to wait for the lift. I got him an aspirin, and he turned out to be…" Her face turned uncharacteristically sentimental, and Crowley couldn't help thinking that it was a good look on her, being content about something in such an uncomplicated way. "...sweet, actually."

The impulse was there to tease her, to take his revenge for all of her pointed questions when he and Aziraphale had first arrived. But, reputation for being an arsehole be damned, it was much better to just enjoy her being, well,  _ happy _ was really the only word for it, wasn't it?

"And I haven't known him that long," she continued. "It's just that he has a knack for breaking things, and he has a different second-hand phone practically every time I see him. They never seem to stay charged, but if he misses an emergency call-in from the service he works for he could lose his job. So I…"

"You gathered together everything you could so you could help him," Aziraphale finished for her, incandescent at the mere thought of someone he barely knew beginning something new for herself. If Crowley hadn't already fallen completely for Aziraphale by now, this would have finished the job.

"Happy for you, 'nathema," Crowley managed to squeak out, his tongue trying to rebel at the gooeyness of it all.

"Likewise," she said, grinning openly at Aziraphale, who blushed and suddenly buried his face toward his cup of tea.

And proving that there actually  _ were  _ forces in the universe who looked after Crowley from time to time, that was the moment that Officer Young arrived, the doorman buzzing through Anathema's intercom to let them know.

* * *

Aziraphale had been watching Crowley and Adam figuratively circle each other from the moment the officer had arrived, and he wanted to knock their heads together to make them see sense. There were terrible things at work here and they needed to drop their suspicion of each other to work together. There was no telling them that, though, and this was hopefully going to be a short phase that would pass soon.

Anathema seemed to share in his frustration, as she rolled her eyes at Aziraphale when neither of the other men could see her, and then she rather pointedly offered them more tea and snacks 'so everyone could settle in.'

"Thank you for calling me in, Mr. Fell," Adam began, and Aziraphale cut in as delicately as he could.

"Oh, you can forget about that false name business; I was so silly before. You're welcome to call me Aziraphale, please."

Crowley gawped at him, jaw working as an incomprehensible noise clattered out of him.

" _ He  _ knew your name?"

"Procured it from official records, my dear. I'm afraid there's no helping that."

"Your name is  _ Aziraphale _ ?" Anathema added. "That's amazing. Your aura makes so much more sense now."

"Anathema," Crowley growled. "Perhaps not  _ now _ ?"

"What?" she asked, faux-innocent. "You should see it next to  _ yours _ , the two of them together," she added, waggling her eyebrows, and Aziraphale couldn't help but laugh.

"Ma'am," Adam said. "Ms…?"

"Device," she finished for him, sticking out her hand for him to shake.

"I know this is your flat, but if I could speak to the two gentlemen in private?"

She looked between Aziraphale and Crowley, and then back to Adam. "Oh. Right," she said, and Aziraphale could tell it was just now sinking in how serious all of this was, even if she didn't know the particulars of what was going on. "I'll be back in my office. Just call for me if you need anything."

Adam waited to hear the door shut behind Anathema and then turned back to them.

Adam introduced himself to Crowley again, motioning for them to sit. Though Aziraphale settled back into the sofa right away, he noticed that Crowley remained standing until after Adam was seated, only then dropping back carefully onto the cushion on Aziraphale's left. He was so clearly frightened, the poor man, and desperately trying to cover it up with all of this posturing. Aziraphale wanted to reach out and take his hand to comfort him, but he had no way of knowing if it would help or if it would make Crowley feel even more vulnerable. His fingers curled into a fist instead, the energy needing to go  _ somewhere _ .

During this introspection, Aziraphale found that more time had passed than he'd thought, and Adam was already wrapping up whatever introductory information he'd decided to give to Crowley before the conversation began in earnest.

"So what have they done?" Crowley asked, leaning back and trying to look careless.

Adam exhaled through his nose, frustrated. "We were hoping  _ you  _ might be able to shed some light on that for us, actually." He paused. "Surely you're aware that your family—"

"—are a load of brutal criminals? Yeah, it's occurred to me."

"And you didn't think to alert the authorities?" Adam asked, fixing Crowley with narrowed eyes, wheels turning and taking in every silent tell of Crowley's constant fidgeting.

"I don't have any  _ proof _ ," Crowley told him, voice going cold. "I'm not involved in any of that, and they don't trust me enough to let anything actually incriminating slip."

"You took ownership of most of your family's shell corporations late last year," Adam pronounced calmly. "The theory inside the agency is that you're being groomed to take over, but we couldn't work out why it doesn't track with your activities, at least the ones we've been able to document. So what is it, Mr. Crowley? If you really didn't know about any of this, how do you explain it?"

Crowley's mouth was open, eyes wide but blinking too frequently. Aziraphale didn't care about being careful anymore; he reached out and took Crowley's hand between both of his, squeezing until he could feel Crowley begin to relax by degrees at his side.

"I took—what the fucking blazes are you on about? I don't own anything other than my flat and my car, and even those are technically in the name of my bloody trust, which my mother is quick to remind me could be revoked at any time."

Adam sighed, standing up to pace until he suddenly whirled back around.

"Mr. Crowley, does it ever happen that your family gives you paperwork to sign? And they don't give you time to read it?"

It was Crowley's turn to get up, cutting a path madly across the room while he thought.

"No! Not since we bought the car. But—oh." Crowley turned around to stare at Aziraphale, and all Aziraphale wanted was to have the answers Crowley was reaching for, or just to be able to snap his fingers and make all of this go away. "There was when I was sick."

"Yes?" Adam asked, clearly excited at this new idea of Crowley's, but all Aziraphale could focus on was— 

"You were ill?"

"Oh," Crowley said, sounding like he was leading into saying something else, but that something else was failing to make its appearance.

"Oh?" Aziraphale prompted.

"Just a…" Crowley waved a hand dismissively, "…cardiac…thing. 'S over now, ticker's in much better shape."

"And—I'm sorry to interrupt—but what happened when you were sick?" Adam's eyes were keen now, focused and bright.

"Well," Crowley shrugged. "I asked to stay at home, their house, while I was recovering from surgery. I wasn't supposed to be on my own, and I…" he paused, his face clouding over. "I couldn't think of anyone else I could bother like that."

"Bother?! Crowley, Anathema would have been there for you. Or Tracy. I've only just met them, and even  _ I _ can see—"

"Later, angel?" Crowley said, his eyes pleading with him to stop. "I promise, you can shout at me about it all you like, but not now?"

"Right. Yes," Aziraphale said, remembering where they were and what they were doing. "Of course."

"But they had you sign things, while you were there?"

"Well, yeah. It was all to do with authorizing my care, for the round-the-clock nurse they brought in so I wouldn't disrupt anything. I had to approve the orders, things like that."

"And you read the paperwork?"

Crowley huffed.

"First few paragraphs, yeah. Looked legit to me, so I just shuffled to where all the signature lines were marked—"

"How thick were the documents?" Adam said, looking more excited now. Crowley put up his index finger and thumb, holding them apart about the width of a pencil.

"Medical consent paperwork really shouldn't have been that complicated," Adam said, talking mostly to himself, and then he suddenly clapped his hands, the noise sharp and strident, and it caused Crowley to visibly startle. (And then Aziraphale realized he'd done so, as well.) "They could have used those to cover putting their assets into  _ your  _ trust, and then made you the trustee instead of the beneficiary!"

Crowley shook his head, looking confused. "What?" he said, perfectly summing up Aziraphale's thoughts on the matter.

"We've been trying to follow the strings of ownership through dummy corporation after dummy corporation, looking for something that could get us the warrant we need to get in there and actually get our hands on the real info. Years, the agency's been on this.  _ Years _ . Then we thought we got our break, that you got careless."

"Me?" Crowley asked.

"Yeah. It all went from this huge, tangled mess to something so transparent, we had to re-evaluate the whole investigation. Didn't make sense, that people would hide behind all those protections, legal and otherwise, and then suddenly make all the trails so clear."

"I'm afraid I'm not finding it very clear, Officer Young," Aziraphale said, finally exasperated at sitting there, understanding nothing, while Adam stood there having a thoroughly one-sided conversation.

"They're trying to drop it on you," Adam said, turning around and pointing to Crowley. "They put everything into one trust, and you're the sole trustee on record for it. They're just beneficiaries. They can plead innocent, say you were the mastermind behind the whole thing and that they had no idea how you were making all that money."

"I'm sorry,  _ what _ ?" Crowley said, dropping back down to the sofa and collapsing back, like all his strings had been cut.

"You own everything. All the real estate, the shell corporations, bank accounts, all of it. Except, I'll wager they've tucked away a tidy sum into some offshore accounts, waiting for you to take the fall so they can retire with their nest egg. All the heat on them would be gone once you've gone down for it."

"And the book…" Aziraphale said, finally absorbing what Adam was saying. "If this book comes out and makes Crowley a thoroughly unsympathetic figure…"

Adam clapped again, and Crowley's shoulders jolted like a gun had gone off. Aziraphale took his hand again, swallowing as he realized what a terrible shock all of this had to be for him. He'd known his family was awful, but surely he'd never considered they would do something like this to their own son. Adam, however, hadn't seemed to notice.

"Time that right before the bust they must have known was inevitably coming, leading into a flashy bombshell of a trial…they're setting him up from every possible direction. This makes  _ so much  _ sense now. And I owe Pepper twenty pounds, blast it."

"You owe…?" Aziraphale stammered, barely resisting the urge to wrap Crowley up in his arms, stand up, and then run as far away as he could get the two of them before he was too exhausted to continue.

"Sorry, it's just a stupid…nevermind." Adam grinned. "This all may have gotten a lot easier, but I have a feeling we need to move quickly before they wipe out the entire trail leading back to themselves."

"Easy?" Crowley still looked shell-shocked, as surely as he would've if an actual bomb had gone off in front of him.

"Mr. Anthony Crowley," Adam began, speaking too loudly and theatrically for the room they were in, his voice sounding official and commanding. "Do you consent to a search of your property?"

"Oh," Aziraphale murmured. He could see Adam's point, now. If Crowley owned it all, he could… 

"Yeah," Crowley said, frowning. "Yeah." He waved a hand, dismissive. "All of it. Tear it up, do whatever you like."

"Right." Adam grinned again, the manic smile making him look about ten years younger. "I'll just be going, then if—"

"Wait." Crowley's voice sounded cold. Scared. "Stop using Aziraphale as a go-between. He never asked for this. Take my number. Call me directly if you need me."

Adam noted down Crowley's number as he robotically dictated it, and then he was gone, leaving the two of them alone in the room. Anathema seemed to have gotten the message that something strange and terrifying was going on, and she remained tucked away.

* * *

Fuck, Crowley thought, and then he repeated it out loud, just to try to convince himself that this wasn't a nightmare. Crowley was a pessimist. He knew this about himself, and he had accepted it. Liked it, even. But even he, in all his imaginings of the million ways his life could spectacularly blow apart, had never seen  _ this one  _ coming.

"Crowley?"

Aziraphale's voice poked in through the fog surrounding him, but he couldn't quite register it. He was saying Crowley's name, calling him 'dearest,' and Crowley had to choke back hysterical, inappropriate laughter. He didn't deserve it, the kindness and concern in Aziraphale's voice.

He could feel himself breathing too fast, his head getting fuzzy with it while his own heartbeat pounded in his ears. He had to hold it together, had to plan and talk and try to work out some way that Aziraphale could escape this situation with his life intact. He couldn't do that if he stood here, useless, panting like an animal.

He blinked, wondering why the room was swimming before his eyes and why his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't get enough control over them to swipe at his eyelids and force his vision to clear. Useless, he was  _ useless _ — 

"Crowley," Aziraphale repeated, voice velvet-soft, as he took Crowley by the shoulders and directed him back to the sofa. Crowley went, unable to resist, berating himself for his weakness all the way until he was sitting. 

"I—I don't—" Crowley stammered, falling forward and putting his head in his hands, and he had no idea what he was trying to say.

"My dear,  _ Crowley _ , you've had a horrible shock." Aziraphale's hands were easing him back, pulling his hands away from his face, and  _ when  _ had the room become so bright? "It's natural for you to feel what you're feeling right now, but let's see if we can't breathe through it together, all right?"

Crowley could feel Aziraphale, solid and warm and  _ real _ , next to him on the sofa, his hands carding through Crowley's hair as he slowly counted out inhales and exhales. Crowley couldn't match the pace at first, but Aziraphale's voice never wavered, never betrayed any disappointment, and stayed soft in his ear as Crowley's gasping breaths began to calm back into something more regular.

"I'm sorry, Aziraphale," Crowley forced out, as soon as his breathing was calm enough for him to speak.

"Please don't apologize, my dear, there's no need."

Aziraphale pulled his hands away from his hair, and Crowley just barely bit back a whine at the loss, but they closed around one of his hands instead, thumbs brushing over his skin, and it was good. Grounding.

"I'm feeling better, Aziraphale. Really. You don't have to—"

"Take your time, Crowley. There's no rush. We have time to think, I promise you. For now, all you have to do is breathe."

"Aziraphale?" Anathema's voice came uncertainly from the hallway, and she walked carefully into the room, holding out Aziraphale's mobile and studiously avoiding looking directly at Crowley.

Great. How much of his pathetic display had she seen, he wondered, and how ridiculous did he seem to her now?

"I swear I wasn't snooping, really, but your phone kept making notification noises. I was just going to bring it to you, but I happened to see something about 'urgent' in one of the messages that popped up." She faltered, but her face softened when she took in how they were sitting together, how carefully Aziraphale was holding his hand. "Thought you might need to see to it."

"I appreciate your concern," Aziraphale said, taking only one of his hands away from Crowley's to accept the mobile from Anathema. He didn't, however, do anything to look into the messages on it.

"Go on, Aziraphale," Crowley said, clearing his throat when he heard how scratchy his voice sounded. "It's fine, I'm fine, and you might need to see whatever that is."

"It can wait," Aziraphale insisted. "I'm not concerned about anything coming through on this blasted—"

"Could be important," Crowley insisted, and he hated the way that worried divot appeared on Aziraphale's forehead. When would he learn to keep his idiotic thoughts to himself?

"There's nothing more important to me right now than—" He stopped himself, squeezing Crowley's hand. "If it will put your mind at ease, however, I'll take a look," Aziraphale said, struggling to operate the mobile one-handed. Crowley tried to pull his hand away, but Aziraphale clutched it harder. "It may take me a few moments more this way," Aziraphale whispered to him, nodding down at their joined hands, "but I assure you, it's eminently worthwhile."

Aziraphale squinted at the screen, sighing dramatically and rolling his eyes after he'd read for a moment. 

"I'll just—" Anathema cut in, pointing behind herself and clearing her throat in obvious discomfort. "I'll just make some tea for everyone," she added and then disappeared so quickly Crowley was surprised that a cartoon cloud of dust hadn't been kicked up.

"What is it?" Crowley asked, his heartbeat quickening again.

"Nothing," Aziraphale said, decisively. "Absolutely nothing."

"Anything you can tell me about?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale tilted his head at him. "I understand if it's private, but I'm…" He took a deep breath, feeling silly and embarrassed, but he barreled ahead regardless. "I'm not doing well with uncertainty right now."

"They're from Gabriel, my branch manager," Aziraphale spat, his nose wrinkling up with distaste. "He's congratulating me on 'finally playing for the team,' whatever that means."

Crowley frowned. "I don't understand."

"I'm not certain you really want to hear this right now."

Well, that tore it. Now Crowley  _ had  _ to know.

"Whatever I'm making up in my head is going to be worse, angel." He shrugged. "I'm a mess, Aziraphale. I should have tried harder to warn you."

"You're no such thing." Aziraphale squeezed his hand, almost to the point of pain. "You're perfect just as you are."

"Aziraphale," Crowley breathed, taking in the blush coloring his cheeks and wondering how he'd ever gotten this lucky.

"But I don't want you to worry," Aziraphale went on, shifting awkwardly on the cushion next to Crowley. (Crowley wanted to tell him not to be embarrassed, that no one had ever said anything like that to him before, but he couldn't get the words to come out.) "Your mother phoned Gabriel when she saw our photo in the paper this morning, and apparently she was quite complimentary about the firm's 'dedication to the task.'"

"Of course that's what she's focused on," Crowley growled. "The sooner that book comes out, the sooner they can frame me for—wait." He thought through it; something was bothering him about the message, but it just wasn't coming to him.

"But we know exactly what they're up to, and  _ they  _ have no idea we have Adam and the rest of the NCA on our side. We have the advantage."

"That's it! That's what…" Crowley said, and he snapped, looking wildly around the room. "What that wanker Gareth—"

"—Gabriel," Aziraphale corrected.

"Right, whatever." Crowley shrugged, trying to put the words in the right order in his head before they bullied their way out of him too fast, making him stumble across the sounds. "He said my  _ mother _ ," Crowley snarled, and Aziraphale's hand tightened around his, "rang him after they saw our photo in the paper this morning." He looked at Aziraphale, willing him to understand. "That gossip rag didn't know who you were, but she  _ did _ . She  _ knows what you look like _ . They could already have someone tailing you."

Run.  _ Run _ . Crowley's entire body was screaming it alongside the erratic pounding of his heart. The doctor's voice came back, something said during one of those bloody post-surgery appointments, telling him he should avoid stress as much as possible as his body adapted to the pacemaker.

"I've got to get you out of here," Crowley stammered. "Somewhere safe." Crowley tried to think. New Zealand? Was New Zealand far enough? What if Aziraphale didn't have a passport? Was there someone he could bribe to look the other way, get him out of here on a private jet— 

"I can't go anywhere. They're expecting us to be working on the book. We need to keep up appearances while Adam and his team get ready for the…well, I suppose you'd call it a 'raid.' We need to stay, Crowley," Aziraphale said, his voice gentle, as though Crowley might break.

(Aziraphale had a point. He  _ might  _ break, if this brittle feeling in his chest was any indication.)

"We might only have hours to get out," Crowley continued, the panic rising like the taste of bile in his throat. "Is your passport up to date? I can call in a favor if I have to. We can just go and deal with the complications later if you haven't renewed—"

"Crowley," Aziraphale said quietly, his voice still commanding all of Crowley's attention as much as if he'd shouted. "The state of my passport is irrelevant. I can't go anywhere, and though I can't force you to do the same, I  _ can  _ ask you not to."

"Angel—" 

"I believe in the system and I believe in Adam. Staying here is the right thing to do. I'm sorry for your family, but they must be made to pay for what they've done."

"They  _ won't _ ! They'll wriggle out of this the same way they've managed to stay under the radar this long. They'll bribe their way out,  _ threaten  _ their way out."

"They've no money to bribe their way out, Crowley. You have all of it, and they’ll have no way to get to any hypothetical funds they might have squirreled away once they're taken into custody. I imagine any physical harm they might threaten would only get them into further legal trouble."

"Aziraphale, you don't know them. Someone like you could never understand the lengths they're willing to—"

"I'm sorry, Crowley," Aziraphale said, blinking back tears, and Crowley had never felt like more of a villain for being the one to put them there. "I'm not going anywhere."

Crowley swallowed through the burning in his dry mouth.

"I'll take you back to yours," he said finally, grasping at straws to keep Aziraphale in his sight for as long as possible, even if it were only a few minutes more. If he could just keep buying time, and circling him like a sentinel, maybe Crowley could be enough to protect him.

Aziraphale shouldn't be in this, shouldn't even have to brush dirt like Crowley and his family from those damnably old-fashioned brogues on his feet.

"I can manage on my own, my dear," Aziraphale said, the threatened tears back under control, but his eyes were red-rimmed. "Perhaps we both need some time to think."

"Right." Crowley's entire body felt numb. Cold. Crowley knew it was right, that Aziraphale  _ should  _ refuse him, and the only thing wrong about it was that the decision had come too late. 

"Please give Anathema my thanks for welcoming us into her home," Aziraphale said, just steps away from the door that would soon shut behind him. Crowley didn’t know if they'd ever see each other again after that.

He couldn't even answer, just cleared his throat and made an unintelligible noise that Aziraphale took for assent before he was gone.


	12. Chaos

Aziraphale had somehow gotten himself to the nearest Tube station without noticing the trip, though he had a dim memory of stopping someone to ask for directions. He'd roused himself enough to mentally plot out his journey after that, then promptly buried himself back into his thoughts as the rhythmic jostling of the car marked out the moments between stations.

Crowley had asked him to run—had wanted to whisk the two of them away to somewhere he imagined would be safe from his family. Crowley's offer had been a heady thing, settling deep into his bones now that he had more time to consider it. He'd been willing to commit the two of them to a life of running, looking over their shoulders (but  _ together _ , a detail his mind kept revisiting) after knowing each other for so short a time. He'd have been concerned for Crowley's state of mind, except for one, small thing.

Despite the brevity of their acquaintance with each other, Aziraphale felt the same way. He'd wanted it the moment Crowley had suggested it.  _ Burned _ to say yes.

He sighed, going over all the reasons he  _ shouldn't  _ feel this certain. They  _ shouldn't  _ run, either, as they'd never truly feel safe, and it wasn't the right thing to do, besides. But deep down, he knew both of those rationales paled in the face of the one that made his stomach tighten with anxiety—that Crowley would soon find him boring, and regret tying the two of them together. Most people did, after a time, with the way he was endlessly content to curl up in a comfortable chair with a stack of books and a rapidly cooling, forgotten cup of cocoa. When he did venture out, he went mostly to a short list of comfortable, familiar museums or restaurants. He'd hardly be a source of endless fascination for someone like Crowley, especially once they were cut off from the more exciting and glamorous parts of his current life.

It was with a pang of guilt that Aziraphale forced his more selfish thoughts to turn to the investigation. Though he had only a vague notion of what Crowley's family may have done, it seemed clear that they needed to be held to account for it. The very idea that they'd intended to enrich themselves through all the damage they'd apparently done and then lay it all at Crowley's feet… 

Yes. They truly  _ should  _ pay.

Buried in those thoughts, Aziraphale startled when he heard his station being announced, and it took him long enough to gather his things and get moving that he barely made it through the doors as the recording entreated him to 'mind the gap.'

He looked around, and the familiar sights of the street leading to his flat seemed more menacing, somehow, as though trouble was lurking around every corner. Trying to swallow his fears through his dry throat and push them downward past his too-quick beating heart, he feigned nonchalance as he began to walk.

He was on automatic pilot when he came to the corner leading to his street, his flat. He pictured everything he knew would be there when he opened the door, the comfy surroundings that had contented him as he'd gathered them over the course of his adult life. He wondered if he'd ever feel the same there, and how long it would take before his wonderings of "what if'' faded away.

It stopped him right there, in the middle of the street, with the impatient foot traffic flowing around him and making annoyed noises at him as he blocked the way. The flat was impossible to face, so he turned toward the park instead.

He couldn't find it in himself to blame Crowley if he ran. Aziraphale had wished for a family of his own more times than he cared to remember, but the image in his mind had always been of a place where he belonged, with people who loved and accepted him. Crowley's family had offered none of that. Crowley feared them and had clearly been right to do so. These people who should have cared for him and nurtured him thought nothing of using him to escape their own consequences. The fear in Crowley's eyes when he'd learned that Aziraphale had been contacted by the authorities, that had been real terror for—not his  _ own  _ life, but Aziraphale's. The selflessness of it floored him, when it was  _ Crowley  _ who had been subjected to feeling threatened by his family for his entire life.

People who could inspire such fear surely wouldn't hesitate to get rid of Crowley, making it impossible for him to speak for himself and contradict his family's version of events. He imagined trying to tell Crowley's story—even if Adam corroborated, how believable could they possibly be? It'd be the word of two people who'd known Crowley for a sum total of a few days versus the word of an entire family of people who'd been in Crowley's life from the beginning.

By the time he reached the park, he was so lost in thought that he barely felt the bench seat hit the backs of his legs as he fell heavily back onto it. 

(He hadn't heard the footsteps behind him, had failed to take in the way they'd matched his pace exactly.)

Instead, his head was a riot of his own voice telling himself everything he'd done wrong. He should have paid attention when Crowley tried to tell him the danger they were in, and not just run away in terror when Crowley had still been grappling with his own fears. They shouldn't have separated. He'd left Crowley to the wolves after lecturing to him about believing in the system that had clearly failed for decades to hold Crowley's family responsible for anything they'd done.

Aziraphale took out his mobile phone, staring at Crowley's entry in his contacts and trying to summon the courage to make the call.

* * *

"Crowley? Are you all right?"

Anathema emerged from the kitchen not long after Aziraphale shut the front door of the flat behind himself, and the oldest reflex Crowley had—pretend nothing is wrong and you might just fool yourself, too—kicked in. He shifted his weight casually onto his back foot, plastering a blank look on his face, and tried to appear unaffected.

He couldn't help noticing that she'd returned without the tea she'd supposedly left to make.

"Yeah, s'all fine. Little issue with the book, but we'll work it out."

"You mean, there's a 'little' issue with the book your parents commissioned so they could frame you for all the horrible things they've done?"

"Should've known you weren't back there minding your business instead of listening in," Crowley mumbled, not strictly to himself, and gave up the nonchalant act. He flopped sideways onto the nearest chair and threw his legs over one of its overstuffed arms. "Did you enjoy the bits with just me and Aziraphale, then?"

"I didn't listen in when it was just you and Aziraphale," Anathema replied, her face twisting with distaste. "I'm nosy and I'm worried about you, but I'm not a monster."

"He won't come with me, 'Nathema. My family's been checking into him, and they've seen that bloody photo of the two of us in the gossip rags. Any idiot can see that he's—" Crowley flailed his arms desperately, trying to get across how amazing Aziraphale was. "And that I'm—" He shrugged, gesturing at his pathetic self, and how obvious it was that he was a goner. "We're going to have to run to stay safe, but he  _ won't come _ ."

"You  _ reeeeally  _ like him. Like,  _ like him,  _ like him."

"Anathema," he growled. "Of all the times to—Could you just help me solve the problem instead of having a go at me?"

"Wait, you want to  _ go on the run _ ?" She appeared to have just parsed what he'd said, her eyes darting around his face to examine every last molecule of him, and he could feel her mind working, analyzing it all and getting five steps ahead of him.

"Obviously." At Anathema's shocked, horrified look, he continued, unreasonable annoyance flooding through him as he tried to defend himself and his plans. "I have to! The NCA was let off the leash as soon as I gave them permission to search every last inch of my family's dirty laundry. It won't take long before my mother has my horrible uncles hunting me down. And if they can't find me, they'll try to get to someone else who might have information for them, or they'll use him to  _ get  _ to me."

"But that guy, the NCA guy...can't he offer you any protection?"

"From  _ my  _ family?"

"They aren't all-powerful, Crowley. Your mother isn't omnipresent and omniscient. And—wait." Anathema paced, her long skirts swirling around her. "They were about to frame you for everything they've done. They're  _ doing  _ that, and there's really nothing else you can do about it other than head it off by working with the police. If you run, you'll look guilty, like you were part of it after all. You'd be running from your family  _ and  _ the law."

"The  _ law _ ? Ugh, that's such a bloody  _ American _ way to put it." 

"You're deflecting because you know I'm right!" Anathema held an accusing index finger out, and Crowley took a moment to reflect on how truly terrifying she could be when she was really invested in something. 

(Crowley hadn't allowed himself to consider before how much she  _ cared _ , and he was fighting back tears yet again.)

"What am I supposed to do?" Crowley had meant it as an expression of hopelessness, a reflection of how sure he'd always been that his family would destroy him and everything he cared about one day—but as the words left him, he realized what he was really hoping for was some advice. "Anathema," he said, trying to ignore how his voice was breaking, "help me figure out what to do."

She blinked at him while he listened to his heart pounding in his ears, and then she was suddenly pacing again in a whirl of heavy fabrics, her long hair streaming out behind her.

"Get on your phone, Crowley. Get on your phone and get Aziraphale back here. You two can stay here until you get word from the police." She stopped short. "We'll call in Tracy, too. You know the amazing stuff she can do with clothes and makeup. She'll be able to act, in disguise, as a go-between for you. They won't be able to recognize her, if they even know she knows you at all."

"He said—Aziraphale—he said he needed time. I can't just go leaping after him right away when—"

"Neither of you were thinking clearly.  _ You  _ were about to take off for goodness only knows where, and the two of you scared the hell out of each other—"

"I thought you hadn't listened to that bit," Crowley told her, watching her eyes bug out for a moment before she got them under control.

"I'm inferring," she explained, raising an eyebrow and daring him to call her on it, which both of them knew he wouldn't do.

"Right," he said, looking down at the floor, unable to move any of his useless limbs.

"Crowley," Anathema snapped, though her voice wasn't unkind. "Your phone. Call him." Her eyebrow rose in a perfect arch over her right eye, and with the way time was oddly slowing down for Crowley, the space between each breath lengthening to short eternities as she glowered at him, he was taking in enough detail that he thought he'd probably be able to sketch it later, just to show her how intimidating she could be. "I  _ will  _ snatch that mobile right out of your pocket and impersonate you if you don't start movi—"

"All right, yes! I understand!" Crowley groused, throwing his hands up before trying to master his shaking fingers enough to pluck his mobile free. He nearly misdailed someone else he'd saved in his phone, a number and a name he didn't even recognize, but it was ringing, and the screen showed 'A-something Z-something Fell.'

Was it strange that, as the ringing noise continued, all Crowley could focus on was that he'd been so busy falling stupidly, irretrievably in love that he'd never taken the time to update Aziraphale's contact information?

* * *

Aziraphale startled when his phone began ringing, the name he'd been staring at in his contacts list merely replaced with a slightly different version of the same text as he realized Crowley was calling him.

_ Crowley  _ was calling  _ him _ , when Aziraphale had walked out after giving him a self-righteous speech about how to deal with people Crowley had known all his life, when Aziraphale had never even met them.

He wanted to answer,  _ needed  _ to answer, but he couldn't make himself move. He stared at the screen, listened to the obscenity of the garish, cheerful ringtone as it blared out of the tinny speaker, and… 

Froze.

"Can be hard," said a low voice, from so close behind him that Aziraphale couldn't stop himself from startling again—hadn't he been alone in this isolated corner of the park? "Figuring out what to say to that bastard. Can't blame you for not wanting to answer."

"What? Who—who are you?" Aziraphale stammered, the phone dropping, forgotten, from his hands when he saw the knife the man was holding, almost casually, poking out from the too-long arms of his battered trench coat. 

"Oh." The man smiled, and it was a terrible thing to behold. It didn't reach his eyes, hardly bent the corners of his mouth upward, but his teeth were bared like fangs, glistening in the dwindling sunlight like the blade of the knife. "We haven't been introduced. Probably for the best. But if you're going to gad about with the traitor, you have to expect the family to be concerned. Best if you come with me, talk to his mum, find out what he's  _ really  _ like before you get in too deep."

The man put out the hand that wasn't holding the knife, giving every indication that he expected Aziraphale to duck his head and come meekly with him, walking next to him past legions of people who could possibly come to his aid without giving the slightest clue that anything was amiss. He'd given Aziraphale a look up and down and sized him up as harmless, just as so many others had done for Aziraphale's entire life.

Aziraphale glanced around, finding (to his relief) a group of people gathered not too far away, setting up for what looked like a family picnic. He stood up and began to back away in that direction.

"Oh, dear!" He raised his voice, speaking as loudly as he could without yelling, and sternly admonishing himself to stay calm, to keep his wits about him. "My good man, we've barely been introduced, and here you are, trying to grope me like this is some sort of tawdry back room somewhere!" Aziraphale looked behind himself briefly, loath to take his eyes off the man with the knife for too long, and was relieved to see that the scene he was causing was gathering quite a lot of attention. "I'll thank you to stay away from me, sir, or I shall have to call for the authorities!"

"What in the bloody hell are you—" the man growled, but then he seemed to sight the people over Aziraphale's shoulder, and he let out a frustrated growl. "Think you're clever, don't you?"

"Oi! That tosser botherin' you?"

Aziraphale looked away again, allowing himself to turn for longer now that the man with the knife had pulled it back inside his sleeve and retreated several steps. There was a tall, broad man—one of the people from the picnic—who'd come closer to them and was crossing his arms menacingly over his muscled chest. 

"Perhaps I could have your assistance finding the exit?" Aziraphale asked, walking backward in the direction of the helpful man's voice, the chattering of the rest of the family growing in volume as several of them whispered to each other about calling the police.

"Yeah, no problem. Come with me, mate." Aziraphale took a deep breath and turned his back on the man with the knife for good, heading toward the family as several of them waved him over, with the one enormous, intimidating man standing in the front. "And you," he said, pointing at the man in the trench coat, now trying to fade away into the shadows and disappear, "you keep away from him."

Aziraphale allowed himself to be led away, toward one of the vine-covered wooden archways leading to the street. He only half-heard the enormous man speaking gently and carefully to him, saying that he knew how these blind dates or dating app set-ups could go wrong. Aziraphale just nodded, his mind racing as he tried to figure out where he could go and where he'd be safe. 

He didn't realize until after he'd taken refuge in a crowded café a few blocks away that he'd left his phone behind, on the bench in the park.

* * *

Crowley swore when his call went to voicemail— _ Perhaps you'd be kind enough to leave me a message with your name and number, and I assure you that I'll be back to you as soon as I'm able _ —and he threw his head back in defeat.

"He doesn't want to talk to me, Anathema. Probably never wants to see me again. And who could blame him? His life was quiet a few days ago, and it took me…what? Less than a week to turn it all into ruins?"

"Try him one more time, Crowley," Anathema urged. "He probably couldn't think of what to say and waited too long. Give it one more chance before you give up."

"I can't keep hounding him. If he wants to be done with me, I have to—"

"I didn't say to  _ hound  _ him, just to try one more time. One single time, to make sure it wasn't just hesitation." She glowered at him and began to reach for the phone herself when he didn't move.

"Fuck's sake," Crowley growled, snatching his hand back. "I'll try one more time—just one—and then I'll leave it for him to decide."

(It wasn't Anathema who Crowley was really arguing against. It was himself. He  _ wanted  _ to call until Aziraphale gave in and picked up, and then he’d spend the rest of his life trying to prove that it hadn't been a mistake for Aziraphale to get involved with him. He knew Aziraphale could be more objective about the situation with the police and his crime-boss mother, and that he should have given Aziraphale's advice more attention from the start. He wanted to tell him that, to apologize for what he'd said and for every idiotic thing he was surely going to do in the future as well, if Aziraphale would just  _ talk  _ to him, or at least let Crowley know that he was safe.) 

He tapped his phone and brought it up to his ear with a shaking hand, counting the rings until one of them was interrupted as the call was answered. Crowley began talking immediately, before he could stop himself.

"Aziraphale! Aziraphale, listen, please don't hang up. I'm sorry. For everything I said, everything I did, anything that—"

"Anthony," came the voice on the other end, which was decidedly  _ not  _ Aziraphale's.

"Hastur," Crowley hissed, clenching the phone so tightly that he could feel the blood rushing away from his hand, his fingertips already starting to tingle. "Where is he? If you've so much as  _ touched  _ him you'll never be able to close your eyes again without worrying that's the day I'm going to find you, and I swear I'll—"

"Manners, Anthony." Hastur let out a low chuckle. "You cause this disaster for your mother and the rest of the family, and you think  _ you're _ the one who should be threatening retribution? I should lock you in that ridiculous car of yours and set it on fire, do you know that? Watching you burn would be the most satisfying thing I've ever seen." Hastur paused, his earlier chuckle now morphing into a hysterical laugh. "If I don't have my hands on  _ you _ , though, I suppose I'll just have to indulge myself with the next best thing. How about your little blond boyfriend, hmm? The one who's been talking to the police?"

Crowley's throat tightened, going dry.

"I—don't you  _ touch  _ him, Hastur. Don't you  _ fucking  _ touch him!"

" _ Too late _ ," Hastur sing-songed. "If you want to ensure his safety, you'll come to me. Alone. No tricks."

"Or?" Crowley said, croaking the sound out past the sandpaper of his tongue.

"Or your boyfriend pays the price, and no one will ever be able to figure out what became of him." Hastur waited in silence, letting Crowley settle into the horror of it. "Come to my place, the one that's off the books—the  _ one  _ bloody place that's safe from the hell you unleashed on us. You know where it is."

Crowley's eyes flew shut. He knew exactly where it was. Hastur had tried to rope him into some ridiculous scheme years ago, just after Crowley had been kicked out of yet another boarding school, and there'd been a dank, depressing flat where Hastur had taken him to tell him about the plan. Hastur had used that place for years, and Crowley suspected that no one else—not even his mother—knew anything about it. If Aziraphale was there, Hastur was right. No one would ever find him, not even the NCA, who were now apparently sweeping through every other nook and cranny under the thumb of the Crowley crime family.

"Come here. Now. Alone. You have a half hour."

The line went dead.

* * *

Aziraphale had no idea what to do.

With the loss of that blasted mobile, he couldn't call Crowley. For the first time in his life, Aziraphale had depended on the mobile to store Crowley's contact information. He couldn't recall Crowley's number, only that there was a 5-1 in it somewhere, and perhaps a 3 some digits before. If he could only calm himself enough to  _ think, _ the rest of the number might come back, but as he noticed his hands aimlessly fluttering around the untouched cup of tea he'd ordered to justify taking up a table, he knew it wasn't likely to happen anytime soon.

He needed to get to Crowley, to warn him about the person who'd accosted him and brandished that knife. If he'd truly abandoned his pursuit after Aziraphale had been helped out of the park and found his way into a much more crowded place, it seemed likely that Crowley would be his next target.

Crowley might have stayed at Anathema's flat, but short of trying to find his way back there (a path he had no confidence he'd be able to retrace, as muzzy-headed as he'd been when he'd left) and then somehow defeat the multiple layers of security at the building to get back inside, there was nothing to be done with that information. Worse, if he was being followed, Aziraphale would just lead danger straight back to Crowley.

He could contact Adam via the same circuitous path he'd taken through various operators when he'd called the general enquiries line earlier that day to arrange the meeting at Anathema's, but he was without his mobile and didn't feel safe going back to his flat. He supposed he could ask to use the restaurant's telephone, but… 

Aziraphale looked around himself, feeling like a true idiot. Every last person surrounding him seemed to have a mobile either in their hand or lying on the table beside them. He had such an aversion to the blasted things that he'd been blocking out their very existence since the day they'd begun their rise to ubiquity. 

He glanced at the table next to him, where there was a young woman also here on her own. Aziraphale had noticed her when he'd first chosen this table, taking in how she smiled at the hardback book in her hands as she bit distractedly into her pastry and took sips from a cup of coffee. One of his first calm thoughts had been a momentary curiosity about how she was enjoying Hamid's  _ Exit West _ , a thought he'd pushed out of his mind when he realized it was a distraction his subconscious had cooked up to pretend that this was just another normal day.

"Excuse me, Miss," Aziraphale said, putting on what he hoped was his kindest and most unassuming smile. He waited patiently (forcing his hands to stop their fidgeting, if only for a moment) as she noticed him and lowered her book. "I am in quite desperate need of making a call, and I wondered if you would consider lending me your mobile. It's safe in my hands, I assure you, and I can give you my wallet for collateral if you're concerned about—"

"Here," she said, holding out the phone toward Aziraphale, and she smiled back. "Keep your wallet, I don't think you're trying to nick anything."

"Would you mind terribly if I did a search for the number first? I'm afraid I don't have it memorized."

"Have at it. Just don't buy anything unless it's off my wish list," she said, winking at him.

"Oh! No, I wouldn't dare," Aziraphale said, horrified. 

"Joking!" she said, and turned her attention back to her book.

Aziraphale fumbled through the unfamiliar environs of her phone, using a method he was sure was the least efficient way to open a tool that allowed him to search for the general enquiries number, and then was finally able to make the call.

It was just as difficult and frustrating as he'd remembered to make his way through the system until he got to Adam—or a member of Adam's team, in this case.

"This is Pepper," came a brusque, female voice across the line. "I was told you had a tip for my team?"

"We haven't spoken," Aziraphale began, "but my name is Aziraphale Frost. I've been in contact with Officer Young, whom I met with earlier today. I have an urgent need for assistance, as I was, just moments ago, approached by a man who had a knife and intimate knowledge of the subjects of your ongoing investigation."

(Aziraphale ignored the bugged-out eyes and shocked-open mouth of the young woman who'd lent him her phone, who had, until now, been pretending not to eavesdrop. It was too important to stay focused on pressing forward with the conversation.)

* * *

Crowley was in a hired car on the way to Hastur's as soon as he could shake himself loose of Anathema, who'd tried everything in her power to keep him from doing…well, precisely what he was in the middle of doing. She'd tried to talk him into all manner of more measured and rational responses, but everything she'd suggested would only have eaten up time. If Hastur had been serious about the half-hour deadline (Crowley kept rationalizing that he  _ couldn't _ , he'd never give up his only bargaining chip so easily, but he wasn't willing to take any risks) then there was no time to waste.

The true reason, though (if Crowley was being honest with himself) was that if Aziraphale was in danger, it had happened as a direct result of Crowley coming into his life. Crowley had gotten him into this mess, so Crowley felt there was a poetic justice, a  _ responsibility,  _ even, for Crowley to be the one to get him out again.

The car stopped at the end of the block, a minor precaution Crowley had taken to keep anyone else from retracing his steps, and he walked purposefully toward the squat, dank little building at the far end of the road once the car had disappeared from sight. One sad, nearly dead tree poked listlessly upward from the cracked earth in one of the few breaks from the splintered pavement of the sidewalk. Apparently urban greening projects hadn't quite made it to this isolated hellhole corner of London.

The building was just as he'd remembered it, or perhaps even worse, if such a thing could be believed. Contrary to the outrageous levels of security surrounding the rest of the Crowley family assets, this particular blight hid in plain sight, the perfect place for his 'Uncle' Hastur to fester. 

Picturing Aziraphale being held captive in this horrible place, Crowley tightened his jaw and ground his teeth, stalking inside to hunt down the bogeyman who'd invaded more of Crowley's childhood nightmares than he cared to count.

* * *

"Yes, we know of someone in the Crowley organization who matches the description you've given," Pepper told him, and Aziraphale could hear the rustling of papers in front of her as she clearly tried to find something specific. "It looks as though he's one of the few who we don't have in custody, so what you're saying checks out."

"I assure you, officer," he said, trying to tamp down his irrational annoyance, "this is all very real and 'checks out,' as you say."

"You're in danger," she said, her voice hard. "Give me your location, and I'll send a team to secure you."

"I'm fine where I am, I assure you. I received the assistance of some very helpful people in the park, and I believe I've managed to put this man off of my trail for now. I'm concerned for Crowley."

"Which Crowl—"

" _ Anthony  _ Crowley," Aziraphale wailed, frustrated. "We've been separated, and I fear that anyone still at large is completely aware of who has enabled this breakthrough in your investigation. They  _ will  _ be seeking retribution."

"Are you in contact with him? With Anthony?"

"I lost my mobile phone in my haste to escape my pursuer earlier, and I don't believe it's wise to return to my flat to call him from there. I," Aziraphale paused, wanting to scream in irritation, "I don't have his contact information without that blasted mobile or the notes in my flat."

"Do you know his location?"

"I did, but it's possible he's no longer where I left him." Aziraphale's mind raced, then suddenly a crystal-clear memory from earlier that day came back to him. "Oh! But Crowley made sure Officer Young had his number. Just a few hours ago! Can you—"

"I can work with that," she told him. "I still need to know where  _ you  _ are, so I can send a team for you. If you're in danger because of the investigation, you're our responsibility. I  _ will not have  _ anything happening to you because of us."

"But you'll find Crowley—"

"I've already written a note and passed it along to another member of the team, Mr. Frost. We're doing everything we can. Now  _ tell me where you are. _ " 

* * *

The door to the basement flat was unlocked and Crowley wasn't two steps inside before he heard Hastur calling to him from deep within the near-pitch dark.

"Crow-ley!" came the call, followed by an insane laugh. "That's what your pals call you, isn't it? You use the family name as your own, but where's the loyalty? The family gave you everything you have, and  _ this  _ is how you repay us?"

"Where is he, Hastur?"

"Who?" There was a too-long pause, followed by more laughter. "Oh? You mean your friend in the outdated clothes? He's here, he's just too busy to talk right now. Aren't you?"

There was a kicking sound, followed by the sound of someone (or some _ thing _ , Crowley reminded himself) falling over, and Crowley's heart was in his throat as he pictured what Hastur might have already done. His breath quickened into gasps, the panic making him useless, and he dug his fingernails deep into his palms to keep from falling apart.

"What do you  _ want? _ "

"Oh, that's simple enough. Even you can't manage to bollocks it up. You're going to turn yourself over—no tricks, none of your lies—and you're going to tell the police you set all of this up. You planted the records in your mum's house, and it's been you behind all of these  _ terrible  _ crimes all this time. Your poor mother was just misguided, loved her only child so much that she tried to cover for you, but she just can't anymore, now that you're trying to pin it all on her."

Crowley shook his head. "I have no way of knowing you'll let Aziraphale go if I do."

"You don't have any choice! If I don't get a call from someone I trust in the next two hours telling me that you've turned yourself in, your little boyfriend here will pay the price. You'll just have to trust me that I'll let him go."

There was no way Hastur would let Aziraphale go, not after everything he'd seen and heard. Aziraphale knew too much for Hastur to free him. Crowley knew they'd both been done for the second he'd shown up here, but he'd held out impossible hope for a way out until right now. This was it, they were fucked.

"So what'll it be?" Hastur asked, taunting Crowley with the crazed glee in his voice.

Before he could answer, Crowley's phone vibrated in his pocket. He almost didn't look at it, sure it would be Anathema trying one last (and too-late) time to talk him out of precisely what he was doing, but it was from a number he didn't recognize. Quietly, he thumbed the button to open the call and put the speaker to his ear, saying nothing.

"Anthony Crowley?"

Frantically trying to think of how to answer, Crowley thought back to the last thing Hastur had said. He'd asked a question, hadn't he? Asked if Crowley would agree to his demands?

"Yes," Crowley said, too loud for the phone caller but loud enough that Hastur would mistake it as an answer to his own question. The renewed barmy laughter as he celebrated Crowley's surrender told Crowley it had worked.

"Are you in a safe location?"

Crowley growled, trying to think of some way to answer, but he was coming up with nothing this time.

"Remain quiet for the next two seconds if the answer is no," came the voice, thankfully belonging to someone who was cottoning on quickly.

(The two seconds took an hour.)

"My name is Brian, I'm with the NCA and I work with Adam Young. Mr. Crowley, can you get to a safe location?"

"Yes," Crowley said, carefully weighing each word to make sure they wouldn't be suspicious. "I can do that."

"Yes, yes!" Hastur crowed. "Say it again! You're finally getting what you deserve!"

“That’s good, Mr. Crowley,” Brain responded. “Call us when you’re in the clear.” A sliver of hope began to take shape in Crowley's mind. How did the police know to call him now? Why wasn't Hastur coming out to mock him to his face? Was it possible—

"Tell me if Aziraphale's safe," Crowley demanded. He had to block out the taunting 'reassurances' from Hastur to hear what was being said over the phone, but he did manage to make it out.

"Aziraphale's with Wensleydale's team," Brian said. "I've just confirmed with Pepper. He's with us and apparently won't stop shouting at us to figure out where you are."

"You absolute bastard," Crowley whispered through the heady rush of relief, knowing that Hastur was too drunk on his 'victory' to pay attention to Crowley any longer, but he raised his voice to cover his retreat all the same. "I'm going straight to the coppers now, Hastur. You've got me dead to rights. I'll do anything to keep Aziraphale safe."

(And look at that, Crowley thought, almost smiling. Other than Hastur not actually having the advantage, none of that had been a lie.)

Crowley was able to walk out of the building, untouched, and right out of Hastur's clutches.


End file.
